


The White Rose of Gloucester

by syn0dic



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Epistolary Writing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, cw emetophobia, cw suicide, im just fucking going with it at this point, implied leomari to the side too, lorenz's dad is an asshole ok, m is for being dark and somewhat violent and using bad words, mentions of abuse and ptsd as one would w twsitd, nobody in garreg mach is straight, there's not any sex in here lol, two crest au, you know. eventually.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 82,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syn0dic/pseuds/syn0dic
Summary: Lorenz bears two crests.This can open an entire world of possibilities for his future, but more intriguing are the pieces of his past-- his father's decisions, his long-absent mother's messages to him, the long whispering darkness that he's only beginning to understand, and the newfound struggle of living in such a way. As pieces begin to fall into place and questions are answered, Lorenz is faced with a decision: who is he, and what will he do?
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 163
Kudos: 371





	1. Prelude

The carriage was comfortable, at least. The seats were black, padded with wool, and the escort, a middle aged woman who was all skin and bone, had offered him a blanket. He had draped it over his lap, the thick weft and weave warm and soft to the touch. He glanced out the narrow windows. It truly did look like the low meadows and hills of Gloucester outside. But why did it feel so different? It was only a matter of months ago that he would have been riding through these hills on his new horse with a few of his father’s vassals and their sons. They couldn’t have changed this much over one winter. When had spring gotten so cold?

Lorenz leaned back, watching the scenery pass in idle thought. What would his father think of him now? It was impossible to tell. Lorenz was his prized son already with a minor crest of Gloucester and blossoming magical potential that would make any parent proud. Surely the addition of a major crest of Riegan would only bolster his approval. But the thirteen year old boy felt only like he was a shadow of who he once was, as if he would fade and slip away at any moment, not to mention that he no longer bore the violet locks his family was known for, no matter how long they still were, in an elegant single braid at the back of his head. And surely his mother would’ve missed him; it would break her heart to know any of what had transpired. He hated to make her cry. He was already thinking ahead, choosing words with care to be kind with her.

The gates opened quietly, the low stone walls of the Gloucester estate a dreary gray in the spring morning air as the dark iron creaked open. He could see the gardens. Red and purple and white roses all bloomed in tidy, trimmed bushes, and the low clusters of violets and phlox carpeted every inch of the gardens but the paths. Lorenz could imagine his mother and her friends taking tea just out of sight, over the hedges-- how dearly he wanted to run into her arms like he was a little boy again.

The carriage stopped before the entrance to the mansion, white marble and cherry wood, the violet Gloucester livery painted over shutters and accents like perfectly aligned pastilles on a white cream cake. Such a sweet sight, he thought, but as he cautiously stepped out of the carriage like a foal on new legs, surrendering the blanket back to the escort, he felt a sick churn of dread in his stomach.

Was he supposed to knock on the door to his own family’s home?

Lorenz pushed it open with a strained creak of not just the antique door, but his arms in protest, the fatigue in his bones so new and foreign. It was the reception hall as he remembered it, white and cherry and violet and the vast parquet floors and sprawling staircase. Empty, as it often was at this time of day, and dim-- but familiar. One of the maids slipped through the door to the dining room, and barely glanced at him, eyes as wide as dinner plates, before slipping back inside.

“Wait!” Lorenz called, voice cracking-- but she was already gone. He stood in the hall a stranger.

Had his father moved his things, he wondered? With each hesitant step up the burgundy-stained stairs, he grew more tired, white knuckles on the bannisters. His room, as well as those of his parents, was off of the corridor in the library. He slipped into the door like a moonbeam, expecting it to be empty. It quite often was, especially if there were no guests, and judging by the reception hall’s hollow quiet, there was almost certainly nobody but the Gloucesters and their house servants in residence at that moment.

Lorenz was mistaken.

His father was in the library. A towering man, Matthias was, and even seated, he had an air of detachment combined with circumspection that set people’s teeth on edge. His long violet hair, now graying, was down, and he was reading. He glanced up as the door opened.

“Lorenz,” he said evenly. “Welcome home.”

Lorenz was tempted to slip back out the door, tears welling in his eyes. His father wasn’t even excited or happy to see his son again after so long a time being gone, and he had nothing to say to him, he didn’t know what to tell him about what it had been like, had his father even known what it would be? He had said something to Lorenz about duties, and obligations to their line and the power of House Gloucester, but Goddess, had he known?

“Thank you.” Lorenz swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in one place. It was drafty in the library. “Where’s Mother?”

“Your mother has permanently returned to Dagda.” His father didn’t glance up from his reading. “Sit down, please.”

Lorenz sat in the chair he usually had, once, a thousand years ago and yesterday, the deep velvet swallowing him. He wondered if he’d gotten shorter or lost weight; he certainly felt small.

“Lorenz,” his father started, setting down the book on his side table with a calculated thump that almost made him jump, “it’s easier that we have this conversation now before you speak to other people on the matter. You may not tell any of the servants, vassals, or any guests what occurred. Nobody is to know.”

“What about my hair?” Lorenz choked out. “They’ll notice my hair. One of the maids downstairs already stared at me.”

“Then you will give them something to stare at. I understand that you, as well as the other successful children, have felt unwell? Tell me, have you noticed this?” It was unnerving how calm the count was.

Lorenz paused. “Yes. Like I’m ill and weak and falling apart.”

“You are not to let it show. You’re a Gloucester man. We don’t fall apart.” He set down his reading glasses, inspecting his son with shrewd grey eyes. “You’re afraid.” He stood, an even pace with his hands behind his back, an intimidating column in front of the windows. “You’ll thank me one day for this, Lorenz. This gift secures your future as the leader of the Alliance.”

It was all his father had ever wanted. To lead the nation, to steal the rug from under Duke von Riegan, to be one of the most powerful people in Fodlan. Could such a thing even be promised, wondered Lorenz-- but with a price tag so steep, could he outright reject it?

“Thank you, Father.” Lorenz bowed his head, feeling the burn of shame and guilt on his face. Why did _he_ earn such a thing? Were there not dozens of other children who had died? Who would never get to return home? He couldn’t cry, not in front of his father, and he ached with missing his mother.

“You understand, of course, that I expect nothing less from you than perfection and hard work. None of your recent changes should sway you from your studies and disciplines. Your tutors will be informed of such. Dinner will be at six. You’re expected to attend.”

“Yes sir.” Lorenz stood, and walked to his old chambers.

His bed and furnishings were present, but it seemed that many of his clothes had been removed or gotten rid of-- the more boyish things had vanished, and only the more mature, dark formalwear had been left behind. His toys and old playthings were gone as well, leaving the room skinned but for the stiff, mature undelights of growing up. At least the linens were fresh.

He collapsed backwards onto his bed. It was his own bed. Soft, pillowy, warm, and comfortable. Too soft. Too warm. How many nights had he slept restlessly on the stone floors wishing for a warm bed, only now to find it too comfortable? The thought was enough to make him laugh, almost. He curled into himself.

He wanted his mother. The sound of her voice, the musical Dagdan singing to him, the laugh in her violet eyes. Would she really be gone, _forever_? The thought was impossible to him. She had been as permanent a fixture in his life as the mansion, or the garden, or the stars at night. Why would she leave him like this? Not even a letter, he thought-- nothing.

Fat tears rolled down Lorenz’s cheeks, streaky and puffy and inelegant and immature. It wasn’t fair. Nothing ever was, he thought to himself somberly. It certainly wasn’t fair that he’d had the misfortune of being pulled headfirst into something so agonizing, but it wasn’t fair that he’d survived, either, that he knew the names, voices, eyes, of so many of his peers who had died by the hands of those...snakes, whose faces he couldn’t remember, whose voices rattled in his mind like chimes in a thunderstorm. But he was tired, he was so tired. After what felt like hours of sorrow, he fell asleep, long white hair drifting out of his braid and into his face, a silky halo on the pillow.


	2. Ch. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning ahead. Lorenz arrives at Garreg Mach, and reinvents himself. A serious CW for Lorenz considering and getting very close to suicide, and possible emetophobia. If this triggers you, definitely don't read and just head to the notes.

_“Lorrie, you have such lovely hair,” cooed the countess of Gloucester, her delicate, thin hands pulling her son’s pin-straight hair into a loose braid, weaving in daisies. “You look like a little prince from a storybook.”_

_“Mother, that’s silly,” he said, half smiling. It was a sunny day, and he was twelve again, wearing his play clothes in the garden while they lazily sunned. “I’m not going to be the prince. I’m going to be the count one day.”_

_“Oh, how pragmatic of you.” She tied off the end of the braid. “You know, when you were this big,” she said, hands low to the ground, “you used to play pretend like that all the time. A little purple menace, you were.”_

_“I know, Mother,” he said. “You talk about it ever so often.”_

_“That’s because I see how much you’ve grown and changed,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “and I want you to remember who you are, my Lorrie.”_

~<>~

Carriages. It was always carriages. This one was going to Garreg Mach monastery’s officer academy. Bouncing along the path northward into the mountains, Lorenz swore he had been jostled so rigorously by the state of the road that his back and shoulders would never be properly aligned again. Even his ever-tidy hair was slipping out of its milk-white braid. Was it possible for packed clothing to come unfolded? Then surely, those in his trunk would have been tumbled to a wrinkly death by now.

“Evras, we should arrive this evening, should we not?” Lorenz was whiteknuckle on the arm rest, unable to even think above the commotion.

“Yes,” said his valet, staring out the window. “It’s not as far as Fhirdiad was, though.”

“It seems to me that the roads to Fhirdiad were as smooth as silk by comparison, however.”

“We can make a momentary break if it would--”

“No,” said Lorenz firmly. “The sooner we arrive, the better.” He tried to distract himself by attempting to read; Intermediary Shadow Magic and Formulas was not intriguing in any known plane of existence, but the eighteen year old stopped for nothing, not even himself. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How was it impossible to find a carriage that could travel smoothly? Commissioning one couldn’t be too expensive. Lorenz lost himself in the reading and the rhythm of the bouncy path, almost, for a moment, distracted from his thoughts of Garreg Mach altogether.

It couldn’t have been more than a few months since Lorenz had graduated from the Royal Academy of Sorcery, and it had been followed almost immediately with his beautillion gala, the coming out into high society of the most sheltered of the estate’s roses. Lavenders and whites and crimsons, and he had been exhaustingly thrust into the middle of it all, by the end of it so sore and stiff from innumerable dances that he had stayed in bed for two days. He almost missed the other white haired girl. She couldn’t be older than fourteen or fifteen, drowned in swathes of lilac and gold and black, and attached to a woman who could have been a mother, and she looked so familiar. The humdrum around his outing had been overshadowed within the month, however, of the announcement of Duke Riegan’s discovery of an heir. In Lorenz’s eyes, it still seemed rather unsubstantiated. His future was secure, no sacrifice was in vain-- so long as he kept working himself to the bone.

And now, he was being scrambled like an egg on the journey to Garreg Mach.

“Sir?” Evras leaned in and peered at him. “We’re taking a brief stop for the horses. I’ll be getting out for some fresh air.”

“Ah,” said Lorenz, setting down his book. “I should certainly enjoy some of these bracing mountain breezes sooner or later then.” He stepped out of the carriage, almost shaken by how steady the ground was underfoot, and breathed in the pine, sharp and clean, in the cold air. He stiffened his posture, straight as a board, as he walked along the path.

There was a dagger in his pocket. Beautiful ivory and gold hilted over steel, a gift from one of the Adrestian dignitaries his father was on good terms with, from his ball. It was a lead weight in the pocket of his tailored jacket, and he had thought about this for a long time.

He didn’t want to live like this. A half life, bleached of all semblance of purpose, to bear fruit that was only for his father’s ambitions. To need to drive himself to weakness and frustration and pain, time and time and time again. To be tortured with nightmares of those who died below the ground before they had even gotten to grow into adults. To hide this, forever, and still wear its constant reminders. He wanted to die, to be free of it, even if it was the end. And this was his last chance, forever.

A low, slow river ran along ahead, the stone bridge six feet above the water. Lorenz pulled the dagger out of his pocket, and held the white rose from his lapel, as well as his prepared letter in his hand. The dagger in his right hand, he looked down at his reflection in the surface of the water.

He resembled his mother so strongly, he thought with a tug of his heart. The sharp, pointed features and the soft purple eyes. He loved her, and every day, he missed her.

But that white hair was a reminder of a destiny Lorenz couldn’t fulfill. He wasn’t perfect. He couldn’t be the leader the Alliance deserved. He never would be. He’d seen it on the night of his outing, the way people looked at him. Like he was some novelty of a thing, like something was strange or off. He’d felt it in his bones for five, almost six years, that something was eating him inside, like his blood was burning him up slowly, wearing his body down to weakness. He had watched the way the other mages at the Royal Academy had so naturally proven their mettle, while Lorenz was left behind to feel once more like a failure. He hated his hair almost as much as he hated himself. It was a reminder that he was broken, damaged, his wings clipped.

He teetered as he stood on top of the bridge railing, the stone already so uneasy. He readied the dagger at his throat.

But he couldn’t do it.

Lorenz hated his hair. 

So he would do away with it.

He took the dagger above the nape of his neck, and with strain, sawed through his long, nacreous braid. It fell into his hand.

Hadn’t his hair once been thicker, more lustrous, when he was a little boy? That didn’t matter now, did it? With a fat plop, he dumped it into the water and glanced back at his reflection. The cut was uneven on both sides, choppy-- but with a pair of scissors and some effort, Lorenz could imagine it might be acceptable to him. It hid how lifeless his hair had been for so long. It cut the white nuisance of memories, like a chain to his old life, away from him.

_”Lorrie, you have such lovely hair.”_

What would she say?

Lorenz threw the letter into the river and watched it melt into the dark water. He then proceeded to lean over the edge of the bridge and empty his stomach, entire body heaving in response to the rush of fear, pain, and adrenaline. Gasping over the railing, he reached up to touch the freshly shorn hair. It was choppy. Limp, no matter how hard he tried. Straight as hair could come. Uneven now, and so short against his neck, the prickly edges itchy against his skin. He’d clean it up that night after he arrived at the monastery with scissors, he resolved. But for now, it was a dramatic change.

“My lord?” Evras was calling for him a few hundred feet away. His mouth tasted bitter and acrid, and he was still shaking. With trembling hands, he reached for his handkerchief and held it over his mouth, trying to regulate his breathing and hide that he had been sick.

“This way,” he called back to the company. “Don’t fret, I’ll walk back.” One foot in front of another. He bit down hard on his tongue. What had stopped him? Some fearful hope that one day it would all be worth it? It certainly couldn’t be worth this. But here Lorenz stood, crisp, short white hair and dagger unbloodied, and alive.

“You…” Evras stopped as he looked at Lorenz, his own auburn-brown hair dim in the cloudy afternoon. “Your hair. What happened?”

“I saw fit to take its trajectory into my own hands.” Lorenz did not extrapolate.

“Oh.” Uncomfortable as he held open the carriage door for Lorenz, Evras frowned in worry. “My lord, are you in the proper state of health for our arrival? I have no intention of intruding--”

“I’m grateful for your concern.” Lorenz held up a hand. “But I’m certainly well enough.”

“We’re running a day and a half ahead. Sincerely, if you’d like to stop for the evening and finish the journey tomorrow morning then it wouldn’t interrupt the itinerary in the least.”

“There’s no need.” The carriage lurched into motion. “Ah, would you please hand me the waterskin?”

~<>~

The many gatekeepers of Garreg Mach’s primary entrance seemed to have their hands full that evening. Future students, commoners by Lorenz’s guess, lugged trunks on wagons through the monastery, pulling them up stairs, thunking them down and over stone and wood floors alike. Parents murmured in excitement, and more than a few noble students had entire accompanying parties of staff. A girl his age with vibrant pink hair seemed to be even snacking while her things were being carried. That had to be the Goneril heiress, didn’t it? He felt like he’d met her once or twice.

“Lorenz Hellman Gloucester?” One of the monastery staff approached him-- full uniform, peering over a logbook, a coal in hand. “Your dormitories are on the second floor beside the staircase. There should also be a label beside your door if you have any trouble. Here,” she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a jangling ring of keys, “is yours.” It was labelled with a tiny slip of satin and ink. “Any questions?” She had barely looked up from her log.

“None, thank you.” Evras and the two drivers were unloading his trunks and bags-- admittedly, he seemed to have more than most. Was it so much to ask to be comfortable?

“Lovely. Dinner is served at seven, attendance isn’t required but you probably won’t find any leftovers.” She smiled cheerily and peeked over the paper, sparing a second glance at his hair before modestly looking back down. “You don’t have any long lost half sisters, do you? I swear, there’s two girls with hair exactly like yours.”

“Merely a coincidence,” said Lorenz, as if that could convince him too. He had no sisters, but surely there were dozens of girls all across Fodlan with white hair who were simply born with it. It couldn’t have been the other children.

“Oh. Well, even so, isn’t that neat. Get your things moved in, and I’ll hopefully see you at dinner.” She gave a chipper smile. “Good luck!”

Garreg Mach was ancient, and other than its massive size, age, and the mythic feeling the walls and parapets gave Lorenz, it was also immaculately kept. Were it not for the hundreds of new students and those helping them traipsing over the place, it would have been in pristine shape. The flower gardens and lawn were only mildly trampled, but even then, Lorenz could tell that they would’ve been perfect were it not for countless careless boots stomping them. They almost reminded him of home.

It would’ve been idyllic were it not for the students crowding the stairwell. It was almost comical to watch people try to cram their things upstairs in a congested clog, and one particularly nimble but miserable looking boy with a black bun even hopped onto and over other people’s things in an attempt to climb down the stairs, against the traffic.

“Oh, come on!” sighed Evras as the boy jumped over Lorenz’s trunk; Lorenz himself stood in the stairwell behind the crowds. He was sure he’d be snapped like a toothpick by the hustle and bustle of the crowd. “Lorenz, throw me your keys!”

Lorenz pulled them out of his pocket and underhand tossed them, and missed spectacularly.

A young girl’s small hands caught the key, a rosy-cheeked ginger who looked ever so familiar bobbing her head up. “I caught them! Who--”

“Me,” said Evras, and Lorenz immediately recognized the holder.

“Annette,” he said aloud in surprise.

“Lorenz!” She turned around and waved, but froze for a second. “Your haircut is really new! I didn’t know you were coming to Garreg Mach!”

“I am,” he said, with a gentlemanly smile. “I’m glad to see you’re here. Thank you for saving my key.”

“Yeah! Oh, ouch!” She jumped. “I’ll see ya around! Bye, Lorenz!” As quickly as Annette had flitted in, she flitted out, ducking under people’s arms as she dashed up the stairs.

“I think it’s clear enough for you, sir,” called Evras as he pulled Lorenz’s largest trunk over the final step. He hesitantly pushed past the remaining people on the stairs, knowing he might never get an opportunity that evening where it was this clear again, and carefully sucked in what little he had of a stomach, sliding sideways.

“I’m attempting to walk upstairs,” called Lorenz, “and emphasize attempt.” As he stumbled past the masses, he was almost to the top and looked down--

A white head. The part was down the middle, pronounced bangs, and she had to have been very short. She seemed so familiar. Had he seen this girl somewhere? Was she....there was no conceivable way. He turned his back to the stairs and walked towards his room. It was labelled in the same neat script as the key, and he pushed open the door.

There was plenty of natural light, he thought, holding the door open for Evras and the other two drivers as they brought in his things. “Thank you,” he said, as Evras scooted the trunk across the wood floor.

“Do you want me to help with unpacking things?” Evras offered, opening the trunk.

“That would be a great help, thank you. Ah, please take care of the books,” he said, as he unloaded his clothing and bedding onto the bed, then sorted and folded accordingly. It was soothing, really, in the quiet.

“Lorenz,” said Evras quietly as he put the last book on the shelf. “I don’t understand why you cut your hair, and I don’t feel that it’s right for me to ask. But I know you have a pair of scissors, and I can help...neaten it, some, with what you have left.”

“Oh,” said Lorenz softly as he hung up one of his uniform jackets. “Is it so noticeably...errant?”

“A little. But nothing I can’t clean up. Here. we’ve got a basin, you have combs--”

“Evras,” said Lorenz, taking off his travelling jacket, “from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” said Evras. “We can’t have you representing yourself all mangled like this. You need to look as smart as they come. Sit.”

Lorenz sat in the chair, back tense, and he could only really hear the snip of scissors, the feeling of the wet comb, the little snips of white hair falling to the floor. “Lorenz, how proper short would you like this?”

“Something...original. Sleek, perhaps.”

“How much do you want me to take off?”

Lorenz hesitated, and he could feel the cold scissors still against his neck. “Nothing excessive. Preferably, keep it close to the length it is now.”

“Gotcha. Sleek. Not too much shorter.” Evras sighed and worked for a few more minutes. “Here’s the mirror,” said Evras, handing it to Lorenz.

It was so...straight, so angular and oblique. It was different. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a cut on anyone else before. Yet, paired with his sharp features, it was pronounced, full of character and personality. It was a reinvention of Lorenz. It was like he was someone entirely new from the narrow faced boy who had hidden behind his long white hair only a few hours ago.

“It looks magnificent,” he breathed, reaching up to touch it. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A summary: Lorenz's journey to Garreg Mach is a literally bumpy ride, and at a stop, he considers ending his own life before deciding to cut his hair instead. Upon arrival at Garreg Mach monastery, he has a very inconvenient move-in, and his valet helps him fix his hair and make himself into something new. Good news. It should be mostly uphill from here.


	3. Ch. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz goes to dinner and runs into a familiar face, and goes to his first day of class.

_“Lorrie,” said a girl his age with long, straight peachy hair, messy and tied up with a spare scrap she’d ripped from her dress, “what were your favorite flowers? I bet you like them. When we go back up, what flowers are you going to pick first?”_

_“I don’t know.” He uncurled from his corner. How Cynthia managed to maintain such level headed optimism, he didn’t understand. “Roses. Red roses.”_

_“I,” she said, rubbing at her shoulder, “like honeysuckle. My mom grows it. Beautiful vines and trellises all over the back garden. Me and Lys play there all the time. She likes to play witch, but I think it’s more fun to play wyvern rider. My dad built us wooden figures for it,” said Cynthia, vigilantly peering at the door as steps passed them-- at any moment, it might be her sister returning. “Our brothers liked playing knights. Lys is smarter than them, though. Even though she’s the baby. What are your brothers and sisters like? You’ve met Lys.”_

_“I don’t have any siblings.” Lorenz shivered in the cold damp._

_“Really? How about cousins?” She scooted closer, her chains and shackles ringing against the stone floor._

_“None.” He shook his head._

_“Then I’m your sister now. Me and Lys, we can be your family.” She coughed, a wet rattling sound. It lasted what felt like an endless nine seconds, and were Lorenz not restrained, he would have gone to help her in a heartbeat. “You think they’ll be back for me today if I cough hard enough?” she joked, but he could tell it hurt to even speak for her._

_“I hope not. They took so much of my blood this morning.” He rubbed at the sore spot on his leg. “I didn’t know I had that much blood.”_

_Cynthia sighed. “I hope they’re not doing that to Lys.”_

~<>~

Evras and his drivers made camp outside the monastery with all other accompaniments; only students and the highest of highly honored guests were permitted to stay in the monastery’s walls. Lorenz bid him a grateful, tear stained goodbye-- they wouldn’t be seeing one another again for a long time, and Evras, in a very real sense, was one of his only real friends.

He could see the smoke and dim warm light of the campfires outside. It made him long for those few days camping, away from his father, and with other people by his side, no matter how rough the roads were and how tired he was. But then, he sat on his bed and was reminded of how horribly the ground hurt him to sleep on, and he cut the nostalgia short. Lorenz stretched his shoulders and put his jacket back on, leaving his candle lit.

The bell tolled seven fifteen. He couldn’t make a habit of being tardy for meals, but this once, he would cut himself some slack. From his upper dormitories to the dining hall was not far, just across two courtyards, but he was tired. What a day it had been. He almost stopped to rest on one of the benches halfway there-- but no, such an open display would be egregious.

The doors to the dining hall were open, warmly lit, and smelled of fresh herbs and perhaps-- yes, that was pheasant. Places were set all around, and even just looking at uniforms, it seemed that most students had sat with people in their own houses. There was the Goneril heiress; he’d have to remember her name sooner or later, there was the young man who had leaped down the stairs beside Annette, and Mercedes as well-- both of them lived in Faerghus, those would be the Blue Lions. He chose to sit two seats down from the Goneril heiress, on his own, with no neighbors to prod at him. He had endured enough today. He didn’t need to attempt idle conversation while he pecked at his food. He wasn’t particularly appetized by much these days anyways.

He was idly pulling apart the pheasant with his fork, inspecting the leaves of rosemary, when the small, white haired girl from before sat down in front of him. She had pink eyes, hard as quartz, and long white hair.

“I knew I had seen you before somewhere,” she said, resting her chin in her balled fists.

“That’s very vague. It’s quite possible you were in attendance at my beautillion. In fact, I believe I recognize you from that affair.” He glanced up at her, expression softening. She was young. A kid sister, maybe. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“You don’t?” Her eyes were wide, almost _hurt_ even, and suddenly, he felt remorse. “Lysithea. Lysithea von Ordelia. I remember you.”

“I apologize, Miss Ordelia. The name is mostly unfamiliar. Your parents govern the Ordelia territory, I take it?” He definitely knew he’d seen her before, her features-- but no, it couldn’t possibly be true, and would he not have remembered her name?

She stared at him slack jawed. “You’re… You’re Lorrie. You don’t remember me?” She pushed back a loose strand of white hair.

“I’m sorry.” Lorenz flinched, starting to feel sick as the pungency of food permeated the air. Not twice in one day, he groaned. “When I first saw you I suspected the truth, but I regret to inform you, I don’t remember too terribly much in the way of names.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard, pushing away her plate. “So you’re not too hungry either.”

“No,” admitted Lorenz. “I find that I have some difficulty with my appetite at times.” The silence was stifling and heavy, and he stared down at the napkin folded on his lap.

“You don’t remember much of it?” Lysithea’s voice was soft.

“Precious little. I have spent a great deal of time trying to forget.” If hers was soft, his voice was a whisper in the breeze.

“You got a haircut.” She smiled. “I barely recognized you, especially now that you’re taller.”

“I’m surprised you have any recollection of me at all.”

“I guess I haven’t forgotten as much as you have.” She sighed. Lorenz was almost uncomfortable in the silence.

“What brings you to the officer’s academy? Surely you’re quite young for a student.”

That brought out a scowl on her face. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all,” said Lorenz, half defensively. “Simply that you must be accomplished in some capacity to attend at your age.”

“Isn’t that backhanded,” she groaned. “You can just say you think I’m talented, or say nothing at all. You don’t need addendums to make a point.”

This little kid needed to learn to take a compliment, thought Lorenz, but he would not vocalize such a statement any time soon. “Your point is duly noted.”

“Thank you,” she said curtly. “More to the matter at hand...You’re alive.”

“As are you.” Lorenz frowned, averting his gaze. “Wait. I may recall you after all. You were one of the youngest in residence, were you not?” he asked, his breath catching in his throat. “I remember your elder sister. She was a dear companion of mine. Your hair was once that peachy color.”

“That’s ancient history,” said Lysithea. “I was what, nine?”

“It was only six years ago.” Implicitly, Lorenz meant to say-- it felt like yesterday.

“That’s just under half of my life.” She poked at the parfait without even having touched her plate of meat and vegetables, further cementing her as childish in his mind. “Listen...I don’t know why you’re here, Gloucester. But I won’t have anyone holding me back. I think you and I could support each other.”

“Why are you here?” Lorenz distrustfully furrowed his brows. “Surely you have better ways to spend your time?”

“I really don’t.” She scraped icing off the top of her parfait onto her spoon, like a delicately practiced art. “I’m here because I need to find a way to make sure my parents will be able to live comfortably once I’m gone. I’m their last living heir. And you know as well as I do,” she said, popping the spoon full of icing in her mouth, “we don’t have too long. So why are you here?”

“I’m going to lead the Alliance. Garreg Mach monastery is one of the first steps in a logical progression up the ladder, and certain...attributes of my physique may help legitimize this claim.”

“He’s got a minor crest of Riegan, so he’s definitely theirs, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Lysithea scraped off more icing. “So if you’re relying on a two crest claim--”

“My experience, background, and responsibility ought to be more than sufficient. Not to mention that I am far more likely to be a legitimate heir to my father than this new upstart is to the Duke.”

“And you’re definitely going to convince the entire Alliance that there’s nothing suspicious about you.” Lysithea wrinkled her nose. “Whatever. You’re good enough at magic, right?”

“Good enough? I was a first rate student at the Royal Academy of Sorcery in--”

“So you’re good enough. I need someone of my caliber to study with. While I respect plenty of the other students in the monastery, and a few of them might even have _actual talent_ , I would think it would be wise of the both of us to work together.”

“May I ask why you would offer to study with me? If anything--”

“I don’t want to talk about it in the dining hall.” She gave him a steely look. “There’s too many people in here listening. I don’t think I can trust most of them. Now, I’m going to try to finish my dessert.” She piled a heap of the parfait onto her spoon and consumed.

Lorenz went back to poking at the pheasant. He even tried two or three bites, and found them nauseatingly rich. It was just the greens again today, he thought ambivalently. There was little to be done for that. 

“You’re not even going to have dessert?” Lysithea frowned at him. “Wow.”

“I’m not fond of sweets.”

“Not fond of sweets! Why,” she started, pushing in her chair and leading them out to the garden, “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard yet. I suppose I do look different now than I used to the last time we saw each other so that’s a good excuse for you to not remember me, even if I remember you. And I guess I might even understand why you want to be here and become the noble, responsible, benevolent ruler of the Alliance or whatever. But not enjoying sweets? That’s an act of sedition!”

“Do you even know what sedition is?”

“Does it matter? Honestly? Anyways,” she said, sitting down into one of the gazebo chairs, “You know something about me that nobody else really does here.”

“You bear two crests.” Lorenz didn’t like the way she was steering this.

“But do you know which ones?” She glared at him, those hard pink eyes back again.

“I remember mention of the crest of Charon--”

“A minor crest, yes. I was born with it.”

“Then that raises questions about your second crest.” He peered at her, inspecting her through his purple eyes.

“It’s a major crest of Gloucester.” She crossed her arms, looking at him. It took a few moments for Lorenz to process that. Where had the blood-- oh, he didn’t care to know. A major crest of Gloucester. “So there’s nobody else I can practice magic with. My crest will activate, and tell everyone who and what both of us are. I don’t want to put either of us in that position. Now, quick question. What’s your second crest? I’m assuming your first was the Gloucester one.”

“It was. A minor crest of Gloucester.” He swallowed. “My second is a major crest of Riegan.” Her jaw dropped.

“You know what? I think I see now what you’re thinking, and I think you’re going to need to think really, really hard about that one.” She paused, tapping her finger thoughtfully against her chin. She glanced at him, and for a second, he felt both pierced by her gaze, and the warmth of affection. “Can I call you Lorrie still, like we used to?”

“You may.” Lorenz softened. She was an annoying fifteen year old, but...she was still so young. She seemed to have a certain defensiveness to her that reminded him how weak she must’ve felt on the inside. To see yourself reflected back in someone as she must’ve, for the first time in so long, must’ve made Lysithea feel assuaged.

“Good. Now, I’m tired, so I think I’m going to go do some reading, and then turn in for the night. You should probably do the same.” She stood up and stretched with a yawn, and stopped beside her chair, sighing. “You don’t know how horrible it is having to deal with people who don’t understand, day in and day out.”

“Yes, I do,” said Lorenz. “Every day.”

“Oh,” she said, pausing, and Lorenz stood up along with her. “Yeah, I suppose you do.”

“Would you like me to accompany you to your room?” It wasn’t just that he had detected a bit of hesitance in the dark of the evening. It was that he liked her company. He wanted her to be safe.

“I don’t _need_ to be escorted.” She paused. “But I wouldn’t mind it if you decided to.”

“Then for my peace of mind, I will.” He offered out his arm. She barely came up below his shoulders, and he hoped the gesture wasn’t patronizing, but she took his elbow, no matter how awkward the angle.

“You know,” she muttered, “I always thought I was short because of the two crests thing. But you have to prove I’m just naturally tiny, don’t you?”

“There’s no shame in lacking height,” said Lorenz.

“That’s so easy for you to say!” She frowned at him as they climbed up the stairs. “You can reach things off of shelves for other people!”

“And I never hear the end of such things from people of your stature.” He stopped at the top of the dormitory stairwell. “I apologize that I didn’t recognize you immediately. It was disgraceful of me.”

“It’s alright,” said Lysithea. “Good night, Lorenz.” She shifted awkwardly closer. “Can I...hug you?”

“Oh,” he said, pausing. He hadn’t actually hugged anyone in a long time. “Yes, I suppose so.” She hugged him, alarmingly tiny and breakable for the amount of personality confined to such a small body. But as much as she seemed fragile, she was also rather warm, and very comforting. He hesitantly hugged her back, bony arms around her.

“Good night, Lysithea.” He turned around and closed his door, crumpling against it as soon as it was closed. All his resolve turned to dust. It had been so long since he had been permitted to speak of such things, let alone since he was in the company of a kindred spirit. Such vulnerability left him weak, and that he had so nearly taken his own life earlier in that day, had cut off all of his hair, and then had been forced to confront such things, made him feel even worse. He sat on the floor of his room, quietly weeping. It was undignified. It didn’t become him. Gloucester men didn’t fall apart.

Lorenz did not permit himself to sulk about on the floor. Pulling himself upright onto his shaking legs, he redressed into his nightclothes, washed his face from the basin, and laid down. He tossed and turned some, but eventually, Lorenz settled into a dense sleep.

~<>~

“Goneril.”

“Present!”

“Victor.”

“Here.”

“Von Riegan.”

“Right here.”

Professor von Curan was taking his sweet time with their first day of roll call, and Lorenz was nervously shaking his leg. This was their professor? Some pot-bellied older man with a specialization in horseback riding? He couldn’t imagine a world in which this would play to any of his classmates’ strengths except for perhaps his own and Leonie’s. 

“Gloucester.”

“Here, thank you.”

“Right. Today we’re starting on our lesson in tactical history in Fodlan. One of the first writers on the subject was the sixth daughter of Emperor Wilhelm the II--”

And the attention in the room was immediately lost, gone for good, never to be reclaimed. Hilda, who had gone through the effort of introducing herself to everyone at breakfast with a cheery smile that seemed quite artificial to him, was at that moment, scrawling a doodly note and sliding it towards Claude.

Lorenz had not yet introduced himself to Claude. He wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to introduce himself to the leader of their house outside of an academic and battlefield capacity, no matter how his father tried to persuade him before his departure. To know him personally would likely be of no use to him personally, and Claude seemed wary. Too wary. Lorenz felt like a single conversation with him would be so full of tells that Claude would know exactly who he was, the moment he spoke to him.

“Psst.” Claude waved at Lorenz from his desk across the aisle. “Gloucester.”

“Can you please pay attention in class?” Lorenz hissed.

“Gentlemen,” said Professor von Curan, “is there anything you’d like to share? It’s the first day of class, after all. Surely nothing is more important than this lesson?”

“Nothin’ at all,” said Claude, leaning forward and holding the quill in his hand, smiling. “The archer’s feint-- that tactic you’re talking about, how does it work with mounted units? Surely you have to take the mount itself into consideration? I was going to ask Lorenz what he thought, since he’s got some experience with horse riding.”

Lorenz gaped at him. Was he really that attentive even as he was trying to hold a conversation with someone entirely different? And, he was almost certain Claude had no intention of speaking to him on the subject of battlefield strategy.

“I see. That may be a future paper subject, Mr. von Riegan. For the time being, however, please refrain from discussing subject material without formal in-class permission.”

“Of course,” said Claude with a wry grin that seemed-- dry. It wasn’t the foamy, glittery feigned smile of Hilda’s that seemed to bubble from her naturally. This was a smile which had a known trajectory and target. Lorenz simply needed to know the intended course of action thereof.

After class, as the students tumbled out into the courtyard, revitalized by the fresh spring air outside. Lorenz himself even felt well, taking a deep breath of the fresh air as the majority of the Golden Deer migrated to the dining hall and the pond. A quick bout of time beside the water, speaking to his new classmates, quite possibly the young artist, Ignatz, if he recalled correctly, or Lysithea again, would do him some good. Having spent a week at the monastery, he felt less poorly than he had before, and was beginning to recover quietly, on his own. He wrote about it, poems, journals, whatever he could, to sort all things out, and absently, in thought as he walked towards the pond, he considered returning briefly to his room to retrieve his personal writing journal.

“Lorenz.” 

He didn’t jump, containing himself, but he was certainly startled, and turned around.

“Oh. Claude.” He retained his straightlaced posture. “I apologize for the fuss in class.”

“Nah, it’s no problem,” shrugged Claude, walking alongside him. “Mostly, I just wanted to ask if you were free after class. I’ve gotten to know most of our fellow house members pretty well over the last week, and I don’t want you to be an exception.”

“How very civil of you.” Lorenz braced himself as Claude leaned over the railing, looking over the pond from the steps. “May I ask what you felt you didn’t know about me?”

“Well, I’ve tried to piece things together,” said Claude. “For starters, your dad is on the round table. Important guy, I know that much.” Lorenz held back the temptation to ask if he even knew how important the Gloucester territories were to the Alliance. “You yourself are more of a puzzle. I bet you play piano? You’re the artistic type. You really should talk to Ignatz, he’s really good at painting.”

“Ignatz and I have already had conversations over dinner.” Lorenz suspiciously raised an eyebrow.

“You have? Good. He’s really unique,” said Claude. “Was my guess right?”

“I do play the piano.” Lorenz rubbed his neck.

“Where did you learn? Tutors, school, something?”

“My mother played. She taught me most of what I know.”

“That’s really cool,” said Claude. “So I was at least half right. You know Lysithea, right? She’s mentioned you.” He tilted his head, his braid falling to the side. How had Lorenz only just noticed that braid? “Not to ask any personal questions, but are you two of any relation? I’m not up to date on the Leicester gossip.”

“She and I are unrelated. Maybe fourth cousins, once removed, on my father’s side, or something of such ilk were I to draw a family tree. But if you’ve noticed the hair,” he said, “it’s merely a coincidence.”

“That was most of what I was asking. I can’t be _too_ blunt around here, you know?”

Lorenz did know. He knew very well. “Ah. You are the Riegan heir, are you not?”

“One and the same,” said Claude, resting on his elbow now while Lorenz sat on the top of the stairs. “Why’re you asking?”

“I’m simply curious as to how you could have spent so long unannounced and undiscovered. What an interesting story it must be.” Lorenz, took the white rose from his lapel, rolling the dethorned stem between his fingertips.

“Maybe for another time. But I heard a little bird saying you were one of Leicester’s best kept secrets as far as public appearances and heirs went for years. I guess you and I both had a couple of cover ups. Nothing we really need to talk about, right?”

“Certainly not.” So Claude knew Lorenz was sheltered until recently, then. “Was the little bird Hilda?”

“You got me there,” said Claude with a smile. “She also said you’re a pretty good dancer, so she has no idea why you were such a shut in for so long.”

“How very kind of her.” His father liked Hilda. She was a favorable political marriage, he had mentioned off hand, and such a marriage would truly cement him in Duke Goneril’s good graces. “I find that Hilda is more perceptive than she ever truly lets on.”

“Is she?” Claude asked. “I dunno. I just think she’s good enough with an axe to be a useful friend on the battlefield.” And, Lorenz realized Claude thought he couldn’t see through that lie.

“I’ve heard that’s also true. I have yet to visit the training grounds with her accompaniment, however.”

“You should! She’s pretty good with lancing too, she might be able to help you with that if you’re having any trouble.”

“I’m not, actually.” Lorenz paused. “Most of my training is that of the magical disciplines. Lysithea and I work together quite a bit.”

“Man, you two are really close. It must be great already having friends around here.” Claude smiled. “Well, I’m going to go grab some lunch and leave you to whatever you were doing. I’m right next door to you, too, so don’t be a stranger!”

“Of course not,” said Lorenz, quite terrified that he was being read like a book. “Good day, Claude.”


	4. Ch. 3

_“Matthias, tell me you aren’t serious about this.” Lorenz had awoken in the night, tiptoeing to the library to pick up a new storybook to read. “Oswald will have your head, he’ll have you removed at the very least for this. You have to be kidding.”_

_“I’m not, Theo.” His father’s voice was still and quiet. “I already have a plan. Godfrey is clever, but I know how to hide my involvement. Oswald will never be the wiser, and with Tiana gone, there’s no other heir.”_

_“I highly doubt this will change a thing about your standing.” His mother seemed terse, and Lorenz ducked, peeking under the door crack. He could really only see slippers._

_“But it will change our son’s. He’s oblivious to all of this, he’s in the right position to gain Duke Riegan’s trust, and Daphnel has already spoken highly of him--”_

_“No. If you go forward with any part of this, I’ll have no choice but to go home. This was part of our agreement.”_

_“I’m not breaking our agreement.” Lorenz stifled a tiny sneeze, and the conversation went quiet. His mother opened the door, her black hair loose around her shoulders and her violet eyes soft, but tired._

_“Lorrie,” she said, kneeling down beside him, “what woke you up, honey?”_

_Lorenz sat up, cross legged, pushing his long hair back. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice small. “Probably the wind.”_

_“Oh,” she said, standing up and giving him a hand. “Let’s go back to bed, then. Tomorrow morning’s only getting closer, isn’t it?”_

_“Mhm,” he said, opening the door and sitting down on his bed. “Mama, are you going to leave?”_

_“No, Lorrie, I’ll be with you for a long, long time.” She sat down beside him. “One day you and I will go on adventures together. We’ll sail the southern seas and we’ll fight pirates and we’ll become explorers. But for now, honey, I need you to go to sleep.”_

~<>~

The first two months of classes passed uneventfully. Lorenz had his own ups and downs, with both his physical and mental health, but the longer that he was away from his father, the better he generally felt. Lysithea’s insistence that he eat _literally anything_ had him putting on a healthy amount of weight, perhaps the first time in years that he could have looked like anything other than a bony, frail thing. He kept up with his class workload easily, and though he was at times behind his classmates in his riding and lancing abilities (outclassed in all fields but discipline), he was thriving. He hadn’t been this content with himself in a long time. It was...nice. He was becoming friends with Ignatz, Lysithea, Hilda, and perhaps even Marianne, and even the other members of his class that he didn’t immediately take to, like Leonie and Raphael. By all means, Lorenz had friends, considerate friends, who weren’t half as competitive as students at the Royal Academy of Sorcery.

He still hadn’t gotten used to Claude, though.

It was alright that weekend; Claude was away for a “team building exercise” with the other house leaders. The professors must have at one point, noticed the disharmony between them all and thought a few short preliminary field battles would help them get along better. Lorenz had a feeling none of the blame was on Claude, but he would never vocalize that.

“Whatcha doin?” Hilda leaned over the library table, peering over his table. “Ooh, looks complicated. It really can’t be much for someone like you, though, right?”

“What do you want, Hilda?” He closed his book, holding his thumb in place on the spine.

“Why do I have to want something to talk to you?” She twirled a pink strand of hair around her finger, the coy grin still on her face. “Fine. I’m bored.”

“Surely you have classwork?” Lorenz raised a slender white eyebrow.

“I said I’m bored, not dead.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Lorenz. Let’s do something fun.”

“And what exactly is _fun_ , Hilda?” 

“I dunno. Let’s...hm, do you like getting your nails done?” She checked her own. “I chipped the lacquer off of mine the other day during axe throwing practice and I hate going alone.”

“I’ve never done my nails.” He pursed his lips, setting down the book.

“Then it’s as good a time as any to try. You’re serious?” She grabbed his hand. “Your cuticles are immaculate.”

“I said I’ve never had a manicure, not that I don’t moisturize.” He retracted his hand. “I’ll accompany you, but I don’t think you have any polish colors that would suit me. Pink is not quite becoming on me.”

“Wow, are you sure? I think with the white, it might…wait, you have a fair-neutral complexion with yellow undertones...no pink, you’re right. But! I have a wonderful platinumy color. I wonder…” She tilted her head. “Come on. We’re going to have fun.”

“I’m studying, Hilda, can it wait?” he groaned, rubbing at his temples.

“No. You’re always studying, it’s a weekend! Come on! Even Leonie let me try to do her nails!”

“Leonie?” Lorenz smiled. “I must admit that mental image is rather amusing. Fine. Do as you wish, Hilda. I promise I’ll be better behaved than Leonie.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” laughed Hilda. “Come on. Let’s go!” She grabbed his arm, and almost certainly not knowing her own strength contrasted to his constitution, jerked him upright and dragged him out of the library.

“Hilda, oh Goddess, let go of my--”

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry.” She let go and gently rubbed his arm. “Geez, I never practice, so it’s impossible for me to gauge my grip and stuff.”

“It’s alright,” he said, brushing away her arm. “Very bracing, really.”

Hilda’s room was cluttered with pink trinkets and drowned in half-unpacked boxes, draped in taffeta, and comically campy. It was like a dollhouse, thought Lorenz. She sat cross legged on the floor and poured a basin, then added salts.

“So first you have to soak,” she said, setting out the basin. “Hands in.”

Lorenz was slightly self conscious about his hands; his fingers were slender, his joints knobbly and often sore, but the warm water softened the skin to pliability, and felt rather nice. “Why?”

“Because it feels fancy,” she said, pouring into her other basin for herself. “I don’t know if it actually does anything, really. It’s just what my maids used to do.”

“Oh,” said Lorenz. “I see. So after this…”

“Then’s the lacquer. It’s the fun part, seriously. I have so many colors…” she trailed off, scooting the box closer with her dry hand. “I was thinking this really pretty metallic platinum gold color. It’s not great on me, but I think it’s just enough to work for you. Subtle, but shiny, but sophisticated.” She dunked her other hand into the basin as well. “I’m just doing a carnation pink on my own, though. I think establishing my personal flair and style is important to first impressions around here.”

“You’ve certainly done splendid work in that regard,” said Lorenz. “You have a real signature.”

“Aww, how sweet of you to say!” She beamed. “Hands out. Oh, I forgot the drying cloths.” She sloshed her hands out of the water, and stood up, shaking them as she fussed through one of her boxes and returned with two hand towels. “So now I’ll file them down, push back your cuticles, trim them. But you already do that, right?” She inspected them closely.

“I do,” said Lorenz, “or at least I trim them and keep the cuticles back.”

“I gotcha. You made my job easier. Thank goddess,” she joked, reaching for a file and gently running it along the edges of his nails. “So you sure do study a lot. Not gonna coast on by with your noble inheritance? I mean, you don’t really have to work hard, do you?”

“I choose to,” said Lorenz. “I feel that it’s my obligation, as a noble, and as a future leader, to be the very best that I can be for the people who will one day rely on me.”

“Oooh.” Hilda poked at his pinky nail. “I see how it is. You’re all about obligations and stuff. That sort of reminds me of my older brother,” she said. “He’s all, Hilda, I have to go fight alongside my men and be a good role model and protect the Alliance.”

“Perhaps it’s like that,” said Lorenz.

“Hold still, I don't want to waste any. This stuff is impossible to find,” she said, unscrewing the bottle and grabbing one of her brushes. “Yeah, maybe it is. I dunno, it just seems kind of silly. I want to make friends and have a good time and stuff, but like, isn’t it a waste of time to keep ourselves from being happy? Doesn’t that just make other people miserable?”

“I’ve never considered that,” he said as she lowered the brush to his nail. “Oh, it’s cold.”

“Yeah, it is. Stop moving,” she scolded. “Sooooo are you seeing anyone? Got anyone waiting back home?”

“No. Though, I feel it proper to inform you that I am considering a few noblewomen as potential candidates for marriage.” Dating, he had no interest in, but marriage was an obligation he would bear.

“Ohhh,” groaned Hilda, “so you’re one of those types.”

“May I ask what that means?”

“It means you’re no fun on dates,” said Hilda. “I’ve been around too many boys like you. Most of them don’t do their nails, though. Most. You’ve got them there.”

“I’ll take that as kindly as I conceivably could,” said Lorenz.

“Sorry,” said Hilda. “I mean, I just think it’s really tedious to make myself look so cute, and then put up with someone who’s really not even all that interested in me for me’s sake. You know?”

“I suppose I can understand the sentiment.” Lorenz certainly didn’t want anyone really to be interested in him. He had enough buried secrets for intrigue to unsettle him.

“What? Don’t you want people to like you or something?” Hilda tilted her head and moved on to his other hand.

“I think perhaps it may be more accurate to say that I want people to respect and trust me, not just like me.”

“Huh.” She tilted her head. “I’m done, by the way. I was right about that color! Oh, it looks stunning.”

“Does it?” He held the wet nails closer to his face, the heady smell of the natural lacquer giving his nose a good smack. “I must admit, it’s rather nice.”

“Like I said, I have the perfect eye for things like this.” She pulled out the bottle to paint her own, but the second she lowered the brush, there was a knock on the door. “Come on in!”

“It’s me,” said Marianne, quietly sliding into the door. “Claude and the other house leaders are back. Oh,” she said, looking at Lorenz.

“Good afternoon, Marianne,” said Lorenz, waving with his freshly painted nails.

“Good afternoon,” she said, clearing her throat. “Oh, and...Professor von Curan didn’t return with the party. We have a new replacement now. Seteth wants us all to meet together in the courtyard. I’ll...go now.”

“Thank you, Marianne!” said Hilda with a cheery smile. “Drop by later this afternoon, okay?”

“Right. I will.” She shuffled out, leaving Hilda with a goofy grin on her face.

“We lost a professor and you seem completely unfazed whatsoever. Do we even know how we lost a professor?”

“Who cares? He was kind of a drag.” She sighed. “But I guess I’ll finish my nails off. You go see what the excitement is all about.”

“Of course. Thank you for the nails, Hilda.” He glanced over them, pensive, and stood. “It’s likely I’ll see you within the afternoon, so I won’t yet say good day.”

“Get outta here,” said Hilda, waving.

Lorenz quietly strolled, brisk and cautious, to the reception hall, pushing open the door. There was already quite the commotion; the retainer of the young prince’s was talking him down from complaints of frustration, the...older brother, perhaps, of the Imperial princess was fussing over her for some reason or another, and Claude stood alone, dragging behind him his gear pack with his coat thrown over his shoulder lackadaisically. He was a disaster. Dried blood was splattered across his face, and he was clearly taking it easy on one of his arms, while his hair was crooked and messy. His undershirt, the yellow tunic and white below it, were sweat, mud, and blood splattered. But he had a crooked grin on his face when he saw Lorenz.

“So Hilda couldn’t make it down to meet me?” He handed Lorenz his bow. “Sounds like her. We might be getting a new professor, by the way.”

“What happened to Professor von Curan?” Lorenz furrowed his brow in worry, holding up Claude’s bow.

“He up and left us in the middle of our tactical exercise when some bandits ambushed us. The bastard even took the horses,” he said, wiping sweat from his face with his shirt. “We had to walk back.”

“What a detestable coward,” said Lorenz, picking up one of Claude’s other packs. “Otherwise, how did the exercise go?”

“Let’s just say the ambush was easier than trying to get their royal highnesses to play nice.” Claude walked up the stairs, with Lorenz straining to keep up. “I think Edelgard was seriously about to rip Dimitri apart with her bare hands. I think she would’ve been diplomatic about it, but Dimitri? He...oh, man, where to start. That new professor also seems a little unsettling, to say the least.”

“Unsettling in which way?” Lorenz set down the bag and took a quick breather.

“Oh, do you want me to take that?” Claude offered, and Lorenz nodded as Claude threw the bag back over his shoulder. “Well, she’s really something on the battlefield. But she isn’t great at conversation, which has me curious to say the least. She just seems like something else is happening that none of us really get. Like she’s from another planet.”

“That seems to be a rather uncharitable assessment. Would it not do us well to assume the best in her?”

“I dunno,” said Claude. “She’s barely older than any of us. Then again...she really did a number on those bandits. Who knows.”

“What kind of weapon does she bear? Surely she must have exceptional skill in that department.”

“She had a sword,” said Claude. “But I get the feeling she could have cleaned up shop with anything you handed her.”

“Sincerely?”

“Yeah,” said Claude. “It was kind of eerie, honestly. But hey, we’ll see how the first day of class goes.”

“That we shall,” agreed Lorenz. Claude crossed the courtyard, Lorenz in tow, to the stairs to the upper dormitories, and tossed his things into his room.

“Aren’t you going to change?” asked Lorenz. “I can certainly leave and head back downstairs for privacy--”

Claude was already pouring a water basin and splashing his face, jacket discarded. “Hm? Well, I’ll probably just wash up again later.”

“Oh,” said Lorenz, leaning against the open door. Claude’s room was barren of most comforts, but a heap of library books already covered the table and was beginning to migrate elsewhere like a slowly creeping ivy overtaking a garden. “I see. Do you have any intent of trying to win the favor of the new professor whatsoever?”

“Nah,” said Claude, “not really. I think between the slow motion volcanic eruption happening in the Blue Lions and then Edelgard’s whole entire...schpiel, so to speak, we’re the obvious choice for her. And,” he said, “it’s not like we aren’t interesting. The dazzling axemaiden, the best artist in the Academy, the mysterious young heir--”

“Mysterious?” Lorenz scoffed. “Come now, don’t be unreasonable.”

“I was talking about me.” Claude grinned.

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Lorenz rubbed at the fuzz of his undercut.

“Anyways. We’re a pretty irresistible bunch, and if she can’t see that, then that’s her problem.” Claude stretched and threw on a clean uniform jacket, the yellow of his tunic peeking out from the neckline. “Come on. Let's head down, show her what we've got.”

One foot in front of the other.

Lorenz was distracted. He was lost in thought, he wasn’t feeling his best, the light caught against the lacquer on his nails the wrong way. It could have been ten thousand things. But with Claude a few steps ahead of him, Lorenz missed a step on the staircase, and tumbled down, crashing onto his long, gawky legs, and also, onto Claude, with a loud yelp.

“Oh, Goddess,” he sighed, rubbing his leg. “What an ache.”

“You’re telling me,” said Claude, brushing himself off as he stood. A faint golden glow emanated from him for a moment, and then, Lorenz felt a pit of dread in his stomach. That was the Crest of Riegan, healing him for a moment.

And it would do the same to Lorenz.

Sure enough, when he glanced down at his hands, the fair skin was starting to glow. He felt sick. He couldn’t do this. It was like a cold tingle running up his legs, only it wasn’t soothing. He knew this feeling. He’d felt it a thousand times. His crest activating. Most people described it as a comforting feeling, and he could even say that of the crest of Gloucester, that it had once felt like a warm blanket when he cast spells from textbooks as a child. But the crest of Riegan felt unnatural, felt wrong, felt like it was trying to escape him, not to mention that it was what he felt first when his blood had been-- oh, he covered his mouth with his hands.

“Lorenz, are you--” Claude glanced at him, and his eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh no.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” blurted Lorenz, taking a deep breath.

“What does it look like?” said Claude cautiously. “I mean, because…I have no idea what it looks like. It looks like you have a crest of Riegan. But you couldn’t, I’ve seen your crest activate before.”

“Precisely, it couldn’t be such a thing,” agreed Lorenz, swallowing hard. “It’s just healing magic.” He held out his open palm, and for the performance of it, demonstrated against where his knuckles had been skinned.

“Gotcha. Slippery with that magic stuff, right? You study it all the time, or at least, you and Lysithea do. Hard work’ll get you places.” He stood up and brushed off his pants, then offered Lorenz a hand up, which he took. “Now that we’ve been thoroughly shaken up, I guess we’re off to make a first impression on our beloved professor.”


	5. Ch. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for animal death in the very beginning of this chapter.

_The midafternoon was hot and lazy in the Gloucester summer. A distant few chirps of birds were easy to hear, the green trees and grasses of a good year of rain were growing tall-- and out of the blue, darting across the field, came the hounds of Count Gloucester, braying after a deer. “Lorenz,” whispered Count Gloucester, readying his throwing spear, “this way.”_

_Lorenz uncertainly followed his father on his mount, trailing him from a distance. The dogs had found the buck. It had three points, a proper sized thing, fattened by the last few good years of springs. The dogs had it cornered, nipping at its heels as they brayed, a commotion Lorenz was startled by. Count Matthias Gloucester raised the spear, tossing it and impaling cleanly through its upper back with a thud. Lorenz winced, retaining his balance on the back of his horse, and violet hair fell into his eyes as he tried to look away while his father dismounted._

_“Come here.” He waved for Lorenz, and hesitantly, the little boy climbed out of his saddle, taking cautious steps towards his father. “Before the rest of the party arrives, you have to finish the job. I’ll make sure they know you killed it. The victory is yours.”_

_The deer huffed, scuttling and trying to paw at the ground, crying out a low, guttural noise in panic as it realized it could not right itself or stand to run away. His father wasn’t afraid at all. He stood behind the creature, watching Lorenz through narrowed eyes._

_He tiptoed closer. It was just a deer. He had seen a thousand of them, walking through the woods behind the garden, along the paths. It would not hurt him._

_The deer would not hurt him._

_“I can’t,” he breathed as he knelt lower beside it, near tears. “I can’t kill him.”_

_“It’s going to die regardless at this point. If you don’t kill it, then it will suffer. Lorenz, get out your knife, and do as I taught you.”_

_“He didn’t do anything wrong,” argued Lorenz, his voice feeble as he pleaded with his father._

_“It didn’t need to. This is simply the way things are, son. It’s an animal.” The Count sighed. “It’s more merciful to kill it, or else it will bleed to death in pain. Cut along the throat. Take your knife.”_

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“This isn’t about what you want!”_

_Lorenz had never heard his father raise his voice with him. Quiet anger, disapproval, certainly, the constant implication of inadequacy, definitely, but never had he raised his voice. The deer’s thrashing was beginning to slow, and Lorenz froze in silence for a few moments._

_“Yes sir,” he said in a small voice, taking his hunting dagger out of its sheath and trying not to watch the creature’s fearful eyes grow dim as he took its lifeblood._

~<>~

To my father Count Matthias Simon Gloucester,

May this letter find you in good health and company. As I have found myself studying, practicing, and building relationships with other students, I have had little time to write. You will be pleased to know that my marks in magic and riding have both been exceptionally high. I have religiously maintained my own health, and am doing as well as one could hope for. The mountain air seems to do me good.

With regards to your inquiries on the Riegan heir, I am sure that by this time, you know his name is Claude. I have found little in the matters of his personal life; he seems to try to make acquaintances with every member of the Golden Deer, including commoners. However, I have gleaned limited information from him. He is a very charismatic and clever leader, and I must compliment him on that regard. I have learned that he bears a minor Crest of Riegan, but also that he is nearly a year my junior. His maturity reflects this fact; he seems to enjoy spending his spare time giving others a difficult time or prodding into their own personal issues. I have also learned that it’s quite possible he is not from Fodlan. I cannot say with any certainty where he is from, but while I may with certainty say that he has the charm of a leader, there is no promise of his knowledge of the inner machinations of the Alliance. This may make him a poor fit for future leadership.

With regards to your inquiries on the quality of Garreg Mach, I find the living quarters amenable. They’re comfortable, and even in the chill of spring, quite often warm at night. The gardens are especially wondrous, and the food, I find agreeable for the most part, though not half as agreeable as the food at the Gloucester estate. Our professor has been replaced rather swiftly after an incident at a field excursion, but I may assure you that our replacement is plenty competent and I find her to be an acceptable tutor.

I am curious as to the state of the surrounding territories of the Gloucester estate. I have heard mention of flooding in the southeast of our territory; have you offered aid and recompense yet? I pray that the managerial and mundane have not fallen into disarray in my absence, though it is quite possible I took such duties too seriously. Additionally, if you would do me the great favor of redoubling your patrols against bandits in the more rural areas to protect village hunters, I would owe you more than words can express. Lastly, assure me that spring in Gloucester is as beautiful with new fawns and wildflowers as I remember it being-- may it never dim or fade away.

Sincerely,

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester

~<>~

“Writing a love letter, Lorenz?” Claude had snuck up behind him, peeking over his shoulder. The soft scent of pine and cedar tipped Lorenz off, second to Claude’s voice. Birds chirped, the sun was out, and Lorenz had a tray of tea out on the table with cups for guests. “I had guessed you were a romantic, but--”

“Please cease this teasing,” said Lorenz, stealthily folding it in half. “It’s merely a letter to my father.”

“Send the esteemed Count Gloucester my regards then,” said Claude. “Telling him how much fun you’re having and how cute the academy girls are and how many times you’ve gotten rejected, I assume?”

“It’s primarily business.” He laid it down and reached for his teacup, taking a light sip of the bergamot blend.

“Oh, I see. That’s a lot of responsibility for someone your age, isn’t it?”

“I’m older than you.” Lorenz shot him a look. “But I do take on many of the regular duties of managing Gloucester. Things like keeping books or allocating funding have fallen to me for the last year and a half, to alleviate the pressure on my father’s shoulders of maintaining our social status.”

“So you work your ass off while he gets to meet and greet?” Claude poured himself a cup of tea.

“Nothing of that sort,” said Lorenz. “My father has to keep up the Gloucester name in many ways, including his seat on the round table. He does a great deal of work. Actually, I would venture to say that I prefer to stay behind the scenes in such matters, as it is. I find it rather rewarding.”

“No offense, but you’re not quite a shut in. You really mean to tell me you don’t want to go out and rub noses with the most important people in the Alliance?” Claude slouched over the table. “I mean, I know the dinner parties are boring, but you seriously don’t want to go?”

“It isn’t for lack of interest,” said Lorenz. “I’m simply...not accustomed to nor am I comfortable with attending events of such tendencies. I have been relatively sheltered.”

“Really? Because I think I’ve seen your dad at least half a dozen times at meetings and things lately.”

“I have my own personal reasons,” said Lorenz, only a little testy. “In any case, I’m grateful that up until my graduation from Garreg Mach, such things won’t be expected from me.”

“And what are you going to do when you have to start going to tea parties and luncheons for political gain?” Claude took a sip of the tea he’d poured himself. “Oh, bergamot. Not my favorite, but not bad.”

“I shall suffer them with dignity.” Lorenz glanced across the table at him as he readied another piece of paper to write to the estate steward about local management. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Are you suffering with dignity right now?” He took a sip of tea.

“Why would I be--” He glanced at the tea spread, and the way Claude was leisurely drinking from his china cup. “This is not a political discussion, nor was it properly arranged. You’re simply a guest at my table.”

“Oh, I see.” Claude set down his cup. “Do you want to talk politics then?”

“I would rather not.” Lorenz set down his ink pen. “I was considering discussing studies?”

“We could. I could teach you a thing or two about battlefield strategy, if you’d like. I seem to have a firmer grasp of it than Edelgard and Dimitri, at least. Or you could tell me all about magic. No guarantee I’d pick up on it, though.”

“I was considering taking lessons in archery.” Lorenz pushed back a stray white hair. “I don’t have a natural inclination for it, to be sure, but I have considered learning it as a means of self defense for when magic may fail me.”

“You were?” Claude tilted his head. “You know what, I could see it. You’ve got enough muscle on your shoulders to get a decent draw strength, probably. Maybe you’re no Leonie, but hey, I could show you the basics. You sure you want to spend your weekend learning to shoot a bow instead of having fun right here, though?”

“You’re right,” he said. “I would rather spend my weekends resting. Perhaps I’ll attend one of the specialty lessons with you next week.”

“I dunno-- no offense, but Ashe and Bernadetta and Leonie almost definitely have you a little outclassed.”

“You’re not even counting yourself?”

“Oh, thought that was kind of a given. Listen, in any case, it might be best to take lessons from someone who’s got more one on one teaching experience. Professor Eisner or Professor Hanneman could probably--”

“Professor Eisner it is.” Lorenz avoided Hanneman like the plague. He had no idea what the professor knew, and he didn’t want to get close enough to find out.

“She is really good at what she does,” shrugged Claude. “I might even drop in.”

“It won’t be terribly interesting, will it?” Lorenz sighed and sipped tea. “Surely for you it would be boring.”

“Maybe. But who knows? I mean, I still watch Raphael practice brawling, see what I can learn, and yesterday, Marianne even let me go with her to the chapel. It doesn’t have to be exciting to be worthwhile.”

“You’re very invested in other people, Claude von Riegan,” said Lorenz, wary.

“What can I say? I want to really get to know everyone. It builds trust.”

“Understandable,” admitted Lorenz, “but I must say, is it really the most effective way to gain trust?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Claude tilted his head.

“Perhaps there are people who would prefer to keep their secrets their own.” Lorenz took another sip of tea, and saw Claude’s mouth curl into another one of those pointed, targeted smiles.

“So you don’t think that the basis of trust is honesty?” Those green eyes pierced him like arrows.

“I never said that,” said Lorenz. “I think the basis of trust, if you _must_ know, is responsibility. It matters little whether or not someone has peeked into my soul or knows my secrets. What matters is how reliable they are.”

“Interesting, interesting,” said Claude.

“Is it really that interesting that I don’t care for people prodding around in my personal business?”

“Well, not really.” Claude leaned back in his chair. “If you don’t want me to ask you any more questions or bother you any more, I won’t.”

“You’ll just ask someone else, I see how it is.”

“I promise. I won’t go asking other people. Whatever I dig up about you will have to come right from your mouth.”

“How can I trust such a statement?” Lorenz met his eyes, light lilac meeting the vibrant green.

“Well, I’m pretty reliable, right? By your own standards.”

That gave Lorenz pause. Claude was, indeed, a good student, a house leader who seemed invested in his companions and peers, a wonderful archer, and as Lorenz was well aware after their first practice battle, a good tactician. There was an ingenuousness to his warmth that made Lorenz worry, of course, but there was also no ill intent to him. Even if Lorenz didn’t care for his family or the way that Claude was stealing his hard-won gift, he had to admit-- he wasn’t malicious, and never had been.

“I suppose you are.” Lorenz’s posture softened only slightly from the stiff-backed way he normally sat. “Therefore, I will tell you the entire truth, Claude von Riegan. I intend to rule the Alliance, and while I find you personally agreeable, I refuse to allow that to inhibit my ambitions. I’ve been working towards this goal for years, and I won’t have it stolen from under my nose.”

“Don’t hold back there,” said Claude. “I had already guessed as much, though. You’re not too subtle, Lorenz.”

“Not subtle?” Lorenz scoffed. “I haven’t been trying.”

Claude laughed. “Alright then! So when you write to your father about me, just make sure to throw in now and then that I’ve at least got some sense in my head, right?”

“I-- what makes you think I was--”

“Just a hunch,” said Claude. “And it looks like I was right!”

“Please refrain from being so smug.” Lorenz crinkled his nose in dissatisfaction.

“Fine, fine.” Claude shrugged. “Anyways, the professor told me to tell everyone about what we’re doing at the end of the month. We’re clearing out bandits ourselves out in the Red Canyon. She said something about making sure we’re prepared to defend ourselves.”

“Can the Knights of Seiros not defend a canyon from bandits?” Lorenz tilted his head.

“It’s a training exercise more than anything, I think. Get us used to dealing with real blood or something.” He rubbed his neck. “I’m not sure all of us will take it too well, though. You seem like you’ll be alright, and I know Leonie and Hilda can probably take it, but you know, it’ll be a rough wagon ride back with Ignatz and Marianne. I think Lysithea might have a hard time, too.”

“Lysithea is a good deal stronger than she lets on,” said Lorenz, instinctively defensive of her.

“Well, I’ll take your word for it, then.” He glanced back at Lorenz. “So did you two know each other before you showed up at the academy or something? I can’t really think of anyone as close as you two who weren’t already friends.”

“You said you were not going to ask any more personal questions.”

“Sorry, sorry,” said Claude. “You don’t have to answer that one.”

“I don’t have to answer any of your questions if I so choose,” said Lorenz pointedly. “But Lysithea and I--” What could he say? What was there to explain? “We were friends when we were children before circumstances separated us. Our reunion has been-- well, gratifying.”

“Oh,” said Claude. “I mean, now that I think about it, that does make sense, I guess.” He took the final sip of his tea. “I heard Leicester’s sort of messy like that.”

“Messy.” Lorenz savored the word. “I suppose from a certain perspective that may be true.” But Lorenz saw it as a very, very delicate set of rules and puzzles. It may have made no sense on the surface, but underlying it all was complex currents. The bell for three in the afternoon tolled, and Claude set down his cup.

“I was going to meet at the training grounds at two thirty. Leonie is going to kill me.” He stood up and stretched. “Mail my head back to my grandfather, alright? See ya later, Lorenz.”

“Good day, Claude.” He waved, opening up the other letter in his heap of incoming mail. It had no return address, and was written in a script that felt familiar in a way he couldn’t quite put a pin upon. Lazy, comfortable cursive of Fodlaner characters danced on the page, but it seemed to resemble the structure of Dagdan in some way-- no return address. A violet envelope.

He ripped it open with avarice, and pulled out the creamy parchment, not a thought in his mind to opening it in his room or in the sacred quiet of the library. He would open it right here, and right now.

~<>~

My dearest Lorrie,

I am so sorry. For everything. I have no way to begin to describe to you everything that has happened. But I am sorry I couldn’t be there with you sooner. You are my heart, my love, my son, and there is not a day where I haven’t missed you with all of my soul. I have not been able to write to you until now. Your father very specifically instructed against it, and I knew anything you received at the Gloucester estate would be screened by him. I have not known of a thing in your life outside of letters to some of my old friends, and even then, the information that they have of you is limited. It seems that Matthias has kept you secreted away. Why, I don’t care to know, but now that you’re at Garreg Mach monastery, I can safely write you and know that you can receive my letters. Thank the lady of the von Boer family for this.

I cannot describe my pain at knowing your circumstances. I left partially because of your father’s choices in this matter; I found his actions despicable, and I was informed that in all likelihood, you had died. Your father and I also had a series of agreements upon which our marriage hinged, and after he broke the agreements in question, I no longer held any obligation to him, especially assuming that my only son had died because of him. This would be a subject for another time, but you were too young to understand how complicated mine and your father’s marriage was. Additionally, with the Brigid and Dagda war on the horizon, I no longer felt comfortable staying in Fodlan, in this land that saw me as its enemy. I could not stay and I had no other choices. I regret leaving you for every one of my waking moments. I feared the worst and acted accordingly, and I can no longer undo these choices. Any question you have on these matters, I will do my best to answer should you choose to write to me.

My Lorrie, I hope this letter finds you well. I am told that you have changed since your return, and my dearest wish is to know that you are still the sweet-hearted, considerate, and smart little boy who I feared I had lost. If you choose not to write back to me, then I completely understand. I am sure you felt for a long time that I abandoned you. If you do, however, choose to write back to me, then my address is enclosed on the back. If you ever have a chance, Lorenz, I would love for you to visit my home, in the capital, and our family. Your grandparents love to hear stories of you, and your cousins have your eyes, and your aunts and uncles tell me that one day, we will find a way to bring you here.

Remember, Lorrie. I love you dearly. I love you so, so much. When I see roses, I think of you. When I hear the piano play, I think of you. When I see a glimpse of violet hair, I think of you. It hurts for me to think of how much you’ve grown and changed, how much pain you’ve been through, how much of your life that I’ve been absent for. But I am also incredibly proud of you, unconditionally.

Love,  
Your mother Tifara (Theophania) Danan


	6. Ch. 5

_“Good morning, sleepyheads,” said a familiar voice, faint but certainly, so familiar as a door shut and Cynthia crawled towards them. Lorenz weakly lifted his head, curled protectively against the wall beside Lysithea. Every muscle in his body was screaming in pain, and even moving to look up at Cynthia hurt._

_“You’re back,” croaked Lysithea, who was trembling like an autumn leaf. “Your hair…” She sobbed. It was milk white like both of theirs._

_“Don’t worry,” Cynthia said softly. “It doesn’t hurt. Here.” She scooted between the two of them, draping her skinny arms over Lorenz’s shoulder. She was taller than him, and Lysithea curled against her sister’s side. It was warm, maybe even comforting. “I’ll sing you back to sleep like Mama used to, hm?”_

_Lysithea nodded, and Cynthia stroked her hair, and rubbed Lorenz’s shoulder slowly._

_“When all the lilies bloom in spring, they never need to think of anything. Worries and woes pass them by, they lay there blooming all day and night.” It was an old song Lorenz remembered a laundry girl once singing outside the windows in the summers. “Fire lilies, royal lilies, wood lilies, trumpet lilies, night lilies, and all the lovely lilies of the valley.”_

_Lysithea was sound asleep, still shaking even in her sleep, and Cynthia smoothed her hair peacefully. “She’s almost sweet when she’s asleep,” joked Cynthia. “Lorenz, look.” She held out her bare legs. “Yours are...normal colored still, aren’t they?”_

_He pulled up his pant leg. “Yes.”_

_“Would you look at that. Mine are starting to turn such a lovely light blue. I can’t feel a thing, either. They warned me that it ought to hurt when my body accepts the second crest.” She sniffed. “Well, maybe I’m lucky. An entirely new look to go with it.” He could see tears streaming down her face in the dark, barely reflected in the crack of light from beneath the door. “It’s roses, right?”_

_“What?”_

_“Your favorite flower. Roses. Red roses.”_

_“Right.” Speaking sent a sharp pain, a visceral response of his muscles in protest from his lower chest, up his neck up his jaw and facial muscles, blinding white light behind his eyes. It burnt._

_“Shh,” she said, stroking his hair. “I don’t know any songs about roses. Don’t talk, don’t hurt yourself more. I just want you to know that no matter what, Lyssie and I will always be your family. Always, always, Lorrie.” She sighed. “You’re sweating so much. Does it hurt?” He nodded, and she held the both of them tighter. “I imagine it does.”_

~<>~

The wagon bounced over the muddy roads on the return journey from the Red Canyon. The cart was silent, but for Marianne’s quiet sobs. She’d killed two bandits with magic. Leonie rubbed her back gently, and about half of the riders in the wagon were asleep. Ignatz leaned against Raphael, both of them fast asleep, Claude and Hilda were both huddled under their own coats, sound asleep, and Lysithea’s head was against Lorenz’s shoulder, flitting in and out of consciousness with the bumps in the path.

“Taking it hard?” The professor, in the driver’s bench of the wagon instead of crammed like sardines in the bed, looked over her shoulder. “Marianne?”

“I could feel it,” she said, staring down at her shaking hands. “Their life...siphoning into my body. I could feel it.” She sobbed again, and Leonie sighed, holding her close.

“Lorenz?” She tilted her head. Lorenz could never tell if this professor saw him as transparent as glass, or if her vacant stare always looked bizarrely knowing. 

“I simply find it difficult to sleep in wagons. I have found that I am relatively...unbothered by what transpired today.” Lorenz didn’t know if that was entirely true or not. Perhaps he was even upset that he hadn’t been heartbroken or guilty at all. He was doing his duty. He was tired, certainly, and now that he was thinking about it, he felt ashamed of himself. But he wasn’t...upset. Not like Marianne.

“Whatever you say. Leonie, are you sure you don’t want to sleep?” Leonie silently shook her head, still preoccupied with Marianne. “Lorenz,” she said, waving. “Come sit with me.”

“I couldn’t possibly move Lysithea.” He gestured to her. “She needs the rest.”

“Then pick her up and bring her with you.”

He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Professor, I don’t think--”

“It was a joke.” She smiled.

“I see.” He grabbed one of the spare blankets from the floor of the wagon and folded it up, and put it between the side of the wagon and Lysithea’s head, then slowly, carefully scooted to the front of the wagon, climbing over the divider. “Is there anything in particular you were interested in talking about?”

“You’ve been distracted for the last few weeks.” She rested her elbows on her knees, slouched in bad posture, lazily holding the reins of the horses.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean you’re not paying attention. I’ve seen you focus before, and for the last few weeks, you haven’t.” Byleth glanced over at him expectantly, as if her response was designed to imply a question.

How would he tell her that his world was crumbling around him? What would she do? Smile knowingly and move on, like she seemed to with everything else?

“Right.” She turned back to the horses. “I heard my dad’s been helping a few of you with riding lessons. I was never much good with riding, though. Not too fond of horses.”

Lorenz stifled a laugh at that.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are perhaps one of the most horse-like people in temperament I’ve ever met.”

“I will throw you out of this cart, and no amount of noble blood can save you from me.”

“In what universe is horse-like an insult? They’re wonderful creatures, very perceptive and full of--”

“I don’t like horses.” She shook her head.

“Suit yourself.” He reached up and brushed against the short fuzz of his undercut. He’d trimmed it himself the other night, and was rather content with it. “I apologize if I evaded the question. It is difficult for me to speak about.”

“I’ve heard I’m a good listener.” She leaned back, legs crossed.

“Some certain...things occurred in my life six years ago, after which my mother disappeared. I had assumed she had left my father and I of her own volition and no longer cared for me. She never returned or contacted me.”

“That’s rough.”

“Well, certainly, I agree. When I needed her most, she wasn’t there. But I received a letter from her two weeks ago that changed all of my perceptions on the matter.”

“In what way?”

“She had been misinformed just as I was, and believed she had no choices.” He sighed. “I know that ought to be a balm to the ache of her absence. But I find that I’m still upset.”

“Emotions don’t have to be rational.” She pushed her bangs out of her face. “They don’t have to make sense. And you can’t expect all of that hurt to just go away.”

“I recognize it’s unreasonable for me to feel this way, there’s no need to reiterate it.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with being a little unreasonable. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of your decisions.” She tilted her head. “What about your father? You talk about him...often.”

“Yet another conundrum. I have found myself unsure of how much trust I can place in him anymore. He has my interests at heart, of course,” said Lorenz uneasily. She gave him a look of uncertain concern.

“But?”

“I simply find myself distrusting him.” He pushed back his hair behind his ears. “More than I ever have.”

“Oh.”

“I apologize. This was likely more than you intended to talk about. You are my professor, and your duty is to teach, not a friend in confidence.”

“You’ve been vague enough for me to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She shrugged. “You have a conscience. More than many.” She sighed. “Make your own decisions going forward. Will you write to her, though?”

“My mother?”

“Yeah.” She glanced over at him.

“I’m still considering it.” He paused.

“That’s fair.” She handed him the water canteen. “For what it’s worth, if you need a friend, I’m here.”

~<>~

In the springtime, Garreg Mach was beautiful. Late spring through the Garland and Harpstring moons brought wildflowers to blossom outside the monastery walls, painting the mountainous countryside vibrant yellows, oranges, pinks, and whites, alive with the newly weaned young of rabbits and deer alike, the songs of birds floating in the air.

Two more long, hard battles.

Marianne didn’t cry anymore. There was nothing to be done for it all, in any case.

But the weekends that the professor didn’t have them working hard were nice. Lorenz liked to spend his time in the gardens this time of year, but the cathedral was beautiful as well, and he found the view from the bridge nice enough to sit and read beside. Today, however, was reserved for tea.

“Which blend are we sampling this afternoon, Ferdinand?” He pulled his tea set from its carrying case, laying out the spread. Lorenz brought the china this week, and Ferdinand would bring the tea and its accompaniments. 

“I thought that a specially imported fruit blend may accompany the agreeable weather we’re having of late.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, let me help you with the spread.” He ever-so-gingerly lifted the lid from his thermos full of hot water and poured it into the teapot, then added the sachet of tea. It had a lovely fragrance already.

“Would you recommend honey, or sugar?” Lorenz set out the cups, and the tray for the sweets in Ferdinand’s basket.

“Neither, it ought to be plenty sweet on its own merit. Perhaps a bit of milk may favor it? In any case, I know that you prefer your teas to have more complexity and aroma than sugared notes.”

“How quickly you catch on! I suppose some of that is the refinement of good breeding.” Lorenz smiled agreeably and sat down.

“I could certainly say the same of you. Good taste in teas is a reflection of one’s stateliness.” Ferdinand sat across from him and set the pocket timer for the tea to steep.

“Here, here,” agreed Lorenz. “A high compliment coming from you, Ferdinand. Are your classes proceeding well?”

“They’re splendid,” said Ferdinand. “Though I do find a few of my classmates to be difficult, or at least, not agreeable.”

“Edelgard?” said Lorenz.

“If only it were just Edelgard! My, though she is such a spirited rival of mine. Rather, I find that her friend, von Vestra, has taken it upon himself to malign me as well.” Lorenz noted that he was misusing the word malign. “I think he worries that I may threaten the Imperial princess’s safety. I mean no such thing by our matches!”

“How amusing that he would even consider such a possibility. My, Ferdinand, you may have to be more vigilant.” Lorenz chortled, and the timer dinged. “Ah, shall we sample it?”

“Of course.” Ferdinand stood to pour for the both of them, and Lorenz wafted some of the rising steam towards his face. Ah, a sweet, almost berry-like body with citrusy undertones and a bright, rosy finish-- his companion was right, it needed no sweetener. Lorenz took a small sip, letting the tea bathe his mouth in its flavor. Oh, it was delightful. Refreshing, but warm and comfortable and complicated.

“This is one of the finest teas we’ve sampled yet,” he said, setting his cup back down onto the saucer. “Once again, I am in awe at the refinement of your palate.”

“Nonsense,” said Ferdinand, taking a sip. “I am certain that you will prove this to be little more than a tinny domestic when you provide the tea for our next visitation. Back to the subject at hand--”

And then, Ferdinand was abruptly interrupted by someone putting _something_ onto the top of Lorenz's head. Ferdinand stifled a laugh with the politeness of a gentleman, and Lorenz lifted it and held it in his hand. It was a white and violet wreath of flowers, hand twisted together.

“Lorenz!” Lysithea, Hilda, and Claude all stood behind him. “I made that just for you. You had better leave it on.” Lysithea’s arms were crossed and she looked like...a petulant child. Then again, she was a petulant child. Lysithea’s wreath was pink and orange, and Claude was wearing a yellow one of great quality, while Hilda’s was a delicate, slightly messy light blue and white one.

“May I ask why you’re out making wreaths?” He set his back upon his head. He felt...silly. He hadn’t done anything of this nature since he was a very small child.

“Because it’s a nice day, and it’s the season for it. Besides, they look so pretty! Lysithea worked extra hard on yours, too, Lorenz,” Hilda said with a smile. 

“Hilda insisted it was tradition,” said Claude. “Besides, I gotta say, it is for sure a good look on most of us.”

“Oh, sorry, are we interrupting your tea party?” Hilda asked.

“Nothing of the sort!” said Ferdinand. “Why, I say, the more the merrier. Join us!”

“No thanks,” said Hilda. “We were going to go pick flowers outside the monastery, in the south field. I don’t really want to listen to you two yammer on about tea for two hours.”

“Yammer on? Pardon me, but--” Ferdinand was stopped by Lysithea.

“I’ll take two of the eclairs, though.” She snatched them from the basket before anyone could protest.

“Let her,” Lorenz mouthed. “I have a wonderful suggestion. Perhaps we ought to pack up the tea, and picnic out in the field. Perhaps it’s rather warm for such a thing, but it could make for a lovely affair.”

“With your nice china?” Ferdinand raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Why not?” Lorenz smiled. “We could always use a change of venue or a little bit of adventure.”

“That’s the spirit!” Hilda said. “I’ll help you pack it all up.”

~<>~

“No. No way. Not doing it.” Lysithea shook her head.

“Come on,” pleaded Claude. His pants were rolled up to his knees, his boots already tossed to the other side of the creek. “Ferdinand and Hilda already on the other side, Lys.”

“I’m not going to step on a wet rock and slip and crack my head open and die, Claude.”

“Then I can carry you.”

“And treat me like a baby?” She stuck her tongue out. “No! I’ll stay on the other side, over here. With Lorenz, too.”

“I was actually--” Lorenz held his boots in his hand, one of his pant legs rolled up.

“Loooorenz!”

Claude laughed, and slipped backwards onto his rear with a splash-- and laughed even harder, his flower wreath askew as he pushed it back up onto his brow.

“Lorenz! Gimme a hand up!” Reluctantly, Lorenz waded into the creek and reached down to help him up.

With a yank, Claude pulled him down into the shallow creek. Aside from being startled and now definitely probably bruised on his backside, and soaked to the bone-- but he couldn’t help but smile, even though he ought to have been absolutely livid.

“Claude!”

“What? I can’t be the only one who fell in the creek, and do you think I really could’ve gotten Hilda to go along with it?” He stood up effortlessly. “See? No harm done, Lysithea. We’re both fine. The worst that could happen is that you get your skirt all nasty with creek water, and even if you do, at least we did too!”

“Not of my own volition!” Lorenz sulked, standing up. “Lest you forget that you pulled me into the creek! I merely intended to cross it, not go for a swim!”

“And would you look at this, the day took us in an unexpected direction! Weren’t you just saying it was hot outside?”

“I was,” admitted Lorenz, wading to the other side, boots in hand. “But wet trousers are never a positive experience, to say the least.” He trudged up the embankment, leaning against a tree as he tugged his boots back on. “Lysithea, it’s perfectly safe as long as you stay clear of Claude.” Claude was carrying his boots, barefoot in the green grass as he climbed the hill. Ferdinand and Hilda were setting up the makeshift picnic blanket at the top of the hill, or rather, Ferdinand was, and Hilda was _directing_ him, and Claude ran up the hill.

“Come on!” he called over his shoulder, holding his flower wreath with one hand and his boots with his other.

“Go along ahead, I’ll wait for Lysithea,” said Lorenz. He sat on the embankment, a little sore. “Lys, is there any way I convince you?”

“Is the water cold?” She held her boots and stockings uncertainly, tiptoeing closer to the water.

“It’s not bad,” said Lorenz. “Don’t worry. Here.” He took off his boots and rolled his pants back up. “I’ll help you cross. It’s no trouble.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“You won’t make it to the hill if I don’t,” said Lorenz. “I don’t want you to miss out.”

“You’re too nice for your own good,” said Lysithea, taking his arm as she unsteadily walked over the stones. She stepped onto the other embankment, legs shaky, and tugged on her stockings and boots as quickly as she could, while Lorenz did the same. “I can’t believe he pulled you into the creek!”

“I can,” said Lorenz, not unfondly. “I don’t mind it too terribly. But don’t tell him that.” They climbed the hill arm in arm, though Lysithea stopped to look at flowers more than once, tucking them into her pockets.

“It’s our secret,” she agreed, flopping down onto the picnic blanket. “The eclairs. Hand them over.”

“Will do,” said Hilda, laughing as she reached into the basket and passed Lysithea an eclair. “Oh, man, it’s so nice outside.” She laid back into the flowers, the slope a high enough grade for a comfortable angle. “This was a great idea.”

“You’re telling me. Sun on my skin, not a raincloud in the sky, this is the way to live.” Claude sighed and sat back on his elbows. “My pants are almost dry already. Man, this weather really is perfect.”

Lysithea sat up, making the flowers into a new crown. “This one’s for you, Ferdinand,” she said seriously, eyeing his head with a squint. “I think the daisies will work.”

“Whatever you say,” said Ferdinand, watching over her shoulder, teacup in hand. “My, you’re very diligent!”

“It’s a serious matter,” said Lysithea, putting the finished product onto Ferdinand’s head. Lorenz was lounging on his side, sipping tea. He wished he had a book with him to read, or something-- but he could permit himself to be lazy for an afternoon. He picked one of the little white flowers, inspecting it between his fingertips.

“Lorenz, get over here,” said Claude, waving. “With us.”

He scooted over the grass and laid back onto his arms, thoughtfully watching clouds. “It is a nice afternoon, after all, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” Claude smiled, glancing at him-- it was a real smile. Maybe the first one Lorenz had ever seen. “That one looks like a wyvern.” He pointed to a white fluffy cloud.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Hilda, shaking her head. “It’s more...flower shaped, I think. You have no eyes, Claude.”

“No, no, you’re both clearly incorrect. It’s a bird.”

“A bird’s closer to a wyvern than a flower is,” said Claude.

“You have to be joking, Claude. Just because they’re flying animals doesn’t make them the same.”

“It’s still closer!”

“I think both of you are missing the obvious bird, right there,” said Lorenz.

“No, no, it’s a flower,” agreed Lysithea.

“Ha! Two to one to one! Ferdinand?”

“Ah! I do fear I haven’t given it much consideration, but now that I gaze upon it, I think it bears the greatest resemblance to...a horse.”

“ _A horse?_ ” they all cried in unison. The bickering persisted, and they all moved and migrated around and over the picnic blanket, and eventually, in the afternoon sun, Lorenz dozed off, the conversation between Hilda and Lysithea on uniform humming into the background as he sleepily closed his eyes, content and lazy and warm in the sunlight.


	7. Ch. 6

_“Theophania my dear,” said Matthias, glancing to his wife from the two business partners he was engaged with over the dinner table, “with regards to the business in Varley--”_

_“I handled it,” she said, the rubies at her throat glittering. “Only just today. I’ll have the ledgers sent.”_

_“Thank you. As I was saying, my wife has been working on the trade negotiations with Imperial merchants, regardless of the conflict arising soon--” and Lorenz zoned out. He picked at the quail on his plate, pushing it from side to side with the most politeness he could muster. His scalp ached from a too-tight violet braid, and his mother was paying attention, but not saying a word-- and he only really cared what she had to say to him, really._

_“Lorrie,” she muttered, leaning over to him. “Are you paying attention?”_

_“To what?” He sat a little straighter, glancing over at her. Her black hair was neatly pinned up, and she wore the amethyst poplin gown he knew was for the finest parties; he liked to help her pick dresses._

_“Your father. Watch how he speaks.” She tilted her head. “One day, his responsibilities will be yours. What is he doing?”_

_“Making jokes,” said Lorenz, pushing around vegetables._

_“No,” she said. “He’s making alliances.”_

_“So you want me to do it like him?” He furrowed his brow. He wasn’t half as socially graceful as his father, even at eleven._

_“I want you to do it your way, Lorenz.” She gave a half-smile at him. “You should be you, not your father, my little prince.”_

_He slumped a little and watched his father as he engineered the conversation. He understood the mechanisms of it all, slowly-- his father would guide the conversation in subtle ways, gaining trust in people, laughing and holding the reins in an almost masterfully elegant way._

_“Mama, what do you do?” He couldn’t understand quite why she was here, if she seldom engaged in conversation. She was a quiet woman, and she didn’t enjoy the parties, and she also didn’t seem involved in any way other than appearances._

_“I make all of this happen. And I listen.” She pushed a stray black hair behind her ear. “All the flowers in the valley have their moments in the sun. Now eat your dinner.”_

~<>~

To my son Lorenz Hellman Gloucester:

It is good news to me that you are well. It is also good to me to hear that Garreg Mach’s officer academy is still the proud institution it was when I attended. Though your letter was tardy, by all accounts, and I would have liked to hear from you sooner, I do find it sufficient. Additionally, I have had your requests tended to.

I write to you with specific agendas and questions. Firstly, I am sure you’re aware that the young Riegan heir has not yet formally been named his successor and that his lineage is still in question. While the round table is poised to accept him as their valid heir to Duke Riegan’s seat, I have every intent of introducing you as an alternative. I am sure you can understand my reasoning, and I am also sure that you would hate to see that which both of us have aspired towards for years, taken away from us. From what you tell me of the Riegan boy, I have determined that you would be better suited to his position regardless of whether or not he is Oswald’s true descendant. I have little to no issue with certain deceptions to uphold this, and I request that you not refute that which I say, and keep to yourself moving forward. Our future is on the line.

Secondly, I must know if the Ordelia child is in attendance at the Academy. I have heard rumors of her whereabouts; I request that you remain as close to her as you can. Her father is a useful ally, if not a minor one and his opinion has some power with Alliance nobles. Keep in her good graces, as well as that of the Goneril and Edmund heiresses. Any of these alliances by marriage would also be more than agreeable, and I shall expect you to take that into consideration.

Finally, inform me of the people who you are in contact with via letter correspondence. There are many people who would seek to gain inside information on both me and you yourself, and are not above deceiving you to damage both of our reputations. Be cautious and keep in constant contact with me. I expect my response shortly, and next time remain to the point.

Regards,  
Matthias Simon Gloucester

~<>~

Lorenz was surprised, to say the least, that his father still had any intention of putting Lorenz on the Riegan seat. He himself had even quietly accepted after Claude was presented that he would eventually replace his father and slowly gain influence and move the head of the table to Gloucester. It was what he had silently operated under. Claude was a potential threat and a rival, and Lorenz certainly tried to forget more often than not that he was so easygoing and good natured-- but he had never assumed he’d take his inheritance in such an outright way. He didn’t like it. And he especially didn’t like the way that his opinion of his father seemed to continue to sour like old milk in a hot summer (which it was shaping up to be).

“Can you pass me that one text on intermediate dark magic? Sorry, the professor has me studying magic.”

“Does she?” Lorenz raised an eyebrow skeptically. “What a strange decision. I didn’t know you had any inclination towards the subject.”

“I don’t really think I do,” admitted Ignatz, “but she said she wants me to be well rounded or something. And considering all the business with beasts and things...maybe it’s for the better, right?”

“You may be right in that regard,” said Lorenz, peeking over at Ignatz’s heap of books. “Ignatz, why do you have a book of records in your studying materials?”

“No reason,” said Ignatz, hesitantly, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. “I was mostly just poking through it for some personal projects.”

“Ah, I see,” said Lorenz. “What a strange thing to choose to study. Although, I suppose if you’re interested in art dealings, such ledgers and records may contain important information. Is that the subject?”

“N-- no, not quite,” said Ignatz sheepishly. “They’re ledgers, but they’re actually from private letter delivery services. I’m tracing that, actually. It’s personal.”

“I see.” Lorenz glanced at the date on the cover. 1174. That was the winter that-- hm. “Might I look over the book? I might also have some personal interest.” He wanted answers-- not for himself, but for Lysithea-- and this was a step in the right direction.

“Oh, sure,” said Ignatz, handing it to him. “Uh, don’t mind the notes I’ve already made in it! They’re pretty aimless, really.”

“Of course,” said Lorenz, paging through the fragile paper, scrawled in various hands. “This was in the library?”

“No,” said Ignatz, “I actually requested it from a friend of the family.” His tone was quite nonchalant for someone Lorenz was rather sure had just committed mail fraud. “You can borrow it if you’d like.”

“Ah,” said Lorenz, flitting through pages to October in the central-- oh. There were many letters out and into the Gloucester estate. He should have known that. He was, after all, quite a diligent manager. Scrawled beside a few notes, in Ignatz’s hand and red wax, were dates and other names. “Perhaps this is prying, Ignatz, but what are you looking for?” Lorenz pushed back milk white strands of hair, eyebrows raised.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you, if that’s any reassurance,” said Ignatz. “But, um...About six years ago, Raphael’s parents died in an incident with monsters, and Godfrey von Riegan died with them. I’ve had my doubts for years about it, but it’s been really hard to find anything like a paper trail.”

“A paper trail?” Lorenz chewed his tongue. “To whom?”

Ignatz, shoulders hunched, searched for the words for a moment. “Well, I have to admit I’m a little suspicious about, the, well, the Count of Gloucester. Not that I think it’s him! Or that you have anything to do with the matter, really!”

“No, continue,” said Lorenz, flipping to the next page. He knew many of these names, but a few recurring ones, and three of them in the Empire, and the Ordelia estate in abnormal amounts of correspondence-- oh, he didn’t like this.

“I’d...rather not, really.” Ignatz rubbed the back of his neck. “If this is too touchy or something, you can forget I said anything at all. I’m sure your father is a good man.” Ignatz was lying through his teeth to say it, and Lorenz, if he stooped to agreeing with him, would be lying right back. “Is there something you’ve noticed?”

“Nothing in particular,” lied Lorenz. “You’re suspicious of my father being involved in the death of Godfrey von Riegan?”

“Ye-- I mean, no! Of course not!” Ignatz cleared his throat. “Absolutely not. I just think it’s interesting that he appears in the ledgers with the same assassins who were found guilty within months, and then all of their connections vanish, and the delivery locations line up really well.”

“Ignatz, I would hope that the connections would vanish. The guilty party was executed for murder.” Lorenz sighed.

“That’s...true,” said Ignatz. “I don’t know how I missed that one.”

“It doesn’t explain the odd coincidences, however. May I keep reading? I must confess, I feel the need to write some of this information down.”

“Oh. Uh, sure,” said Ignatz. “As long as you’re helping me with my dark magic homework, honestly!” Lorenz was beginning to question whether or not Ignatz was even capable of saying no.

Lorenz began copying every occurence of a name he didn’t recognize, in or out of the Gloucester estate-- most mail was addressed to other lords or financiers and merchants, and were names Lorenz, in his years of helping his father personally, would’ve recognized; outliers were few and far between, and when they appeared, they often were to territories closer to the Imperial border, within the Empire, or within a certain sect of art merchants.

Which way had the carriage come from?

He didn’t remember the going. He was awoken in his pajamas, told to be quiet, and put in a windowless wagon. He didn’t remember which way they were going.

But Lorenz did remember which way he had returned from. Almost dead west, down from mountains, across rivers and bridges. In the Empire.

Letters from the suspicious two addresses in the Empire continued on into the next year, until mid February. The last unrecognizable name, or rather, a name he had never seen written in any correspondence from his father, was that of Ludwig von Aegir.

~<>~

Summer evenings always had the sun setting late and low in the sky, the orange sun dim and hot as it slouched between mountains. The thunderstorms, though few and far between, would leave hot humidity in puddles around monastery courtyards, and it was times like this where the academy uniforms, even the summer ones, seemed far too warm for most people’s liking. Evenings, however, were perfect for leisurely time spent with others. He had been avoiding Claude again. It wasn’t that he disliked him. Lorenz liked him plenty. It was that he was uncomfortable with how difficult it was to dislike him. He had pushed any thought of Claude aside, other than archery practice and the weekend battles their professor was making into ritual, thorough practice, weeks ago, and his father stirring those questions up in his mind again had him uneased.

After dinners, he liked to read outside. It was better than keeping himself inside, in the dusty library, and less lonesome than his room. More often than not, someone would join him; usually Marianne or Ignatz would sit near him and read, or hold quiet conversation. But today, on the bench swing, perched like a sparrow beside him, was Lysithea. She was a quiet reading partner most of the time, though whether she was really quiet by nature or simply pretended to be so to feel more grown up remained to be seen.

“What are you reading?” She leaned over from her book, which Lorenz had watched her pick up at the library (a fantasy novel about princesses), and peeked at his.

“The Lays of Saint Indech.” He shut the paper-bound cover. “They’re rather dry. Are you enjoying your reading?”

“Hardly,” scoffed Lysithea. “It’s silly. They’re meant to be...wish fulfillment, I guess, for teenage girls who wish they were courtly maidens or something. I think it’s intolerably stupid.”

“It’s leisure reading,” said Lorenz. “If you don’t like it, then perhaps you could return it to the library?”

“I...I like it fine.” She closed the book and set it to the side, and Lorenz smiled. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” said Lorenz, wry and affectionate. “I just didn’t take you for a reader of such fare. They’re a little...immature, aren’t they?” He was prodding at a time bomb, and he knew it.

“They’re perfectly fine! You know, they’re written by adults, so in practice what’s the difference between my books, and your silly poetry? And besides, this is my first time reading something like this, so I don’t even know if I really like things like this at all, and there’s no harm in a little self indulgence, either!”

“Please calm yourself,” said Lorenz. “I was merely joking with you. I think it’s good that you’re balancing your reading. I would hate for you to burn yourself out on magic. Besides, I understand the appeal of such books. There’s no shame in reading things that aren’t necessarily highbrow literature.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms. “As long as you don’t tell anyone else.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” said Lorenz, sighing. “Lysithea, anything you tell me is in full confidence. You need not worry about whether or not I speak ill of you to others, or what, between us, is a secret.”

“Fine,” she said, pulling her legs up to sit cross legged on the bench. She let that sink in, for a few moments, and Lorenz could see the machinery wheels turning behind her eyes. He tilted his head.

“Is something on your mind? Your thoughts seem to be preoccupied.” His brow furrowed in concern. “Whatever is troubling you, I’m here.”

“No, Lorenz, you’re not,” she spat, withdrawing slightly. “I thought-- for years and years, that I was so alone, that if only there was someone who understood what I was going through, that I would be able to talk to them. And I would feel better about this entire-- the thing. But we study with each other almost every day, and we’ve been side by side in dozens of battles, and any time we even get close to talking about it, you’ve shut it down. Like after the incident with the Lance of Ruin-- I wanted to talk to you. I felt so alone, I was so afraid that...that that might happen to us, you know? But you just don’t talk about it. And that’s fine.”

Oh. He froze, trying to find the words for this. He had been so used to silence on the matter, that it had never occurred to him that perhaps Lysithea hadn’t wanted that. Perhaps their unspoken shared bond that he had simply assumed was enough to hold them together, was not meant to be unspoken. He didn’t want to talk about it, he’d never wanted to talk about it. It was always there, like a ghost with long violet hair-- but he didn’t want to talk about it. But he could. Maybe, he could try, for Lysithea.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said. “If I had known this upset you so much, I would have been more receptive to conversation. If you want to, we could speak of such matters now.”

“It’s not about right now,” she said with a despondent sigh. “It’s about when things are hard! When...when everything _hurts_ and I can’t do it alone, and you’re the only person who knows what it’s like.” She pushed back pearly hair, her face red with frustration.

“I see,” he said, sighing. “Lysithea, if I have been lacking in my ability to relate to you in this way, it is because this territory is unfamiliar to me. I...I have been alone, very alone, for as long as you have. I do not know how to properly sympathize on the matter with others in the least, and I thought the unspoken trust between us would suffice.”

Lysithea sighed, leaning forward and pulling one of her knees close to her chest. “Well, it doesn’t.”

“Then how can I-- or, how can we, really-- repair the matter?” He reached out his hand to her, open palm up in the sunset. She took it without hesitating, weaving her chubby, kiddish hands in Lorenz’s bony fingers.

“When you’re having a difficult time, can you come to me?” she asked in a small voice.

He didn’t know if he could promise that. Waking her at night seemed like it would disturb her, and he had no intention of laying his burdens on Lysithea. She needed support. But it would soothe her heart if he agreed. “Yes. I can make my best efforts to be open on such matters with you. So long as you promise to do the same for me. I don’t want the most talented magician I’ve ever met to throw her life away being miserable.”

“You know, that’s completely fair,” said Lysithea thoughtfully. “Now that that’s out of the way, I am so _fucking tired_.”

“Who taught you that word? Lysithea, it is imperative that I know.”

“Nobody! I’m fifteen, Lorenz!” she replied indignantly. “Do you think fifteen year olds don’t know swears? Did you not learn swears until you were old?”

“I’ve known such words for a long time, but using them is another matter entirely.” He scowled at her disapprovingly.

“I have earned the right to use fuck as much as I’d like.” She rolled her eyes.

“You have done no such thing. Even I don’t use such vulgarity, Lysithea. A young lady never ought to use words of that nature.”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Please cease this! It’s ridiculous!”

“Is not! If I have to be stuck with you being the only idiot around here who knows my secret, then I have a very good reason to say fuck!”

“I’m the only one who knows?” Lorenz asked.

“Well, duh. Who else am I going to tell? The professor?” She snorted. “No. You’re the only one who knows. Have you been walking around telling people or something?”

“No,” said Lorenz. “But I wonder for how much longer this can stay our secret. Eventually, someone will piece the matter together or something will slip-- and you and I will be exposed.” He thought back to when the Crest of Riegan had all but yelled its own name in front of Claude, and of the few times it had healed his body no matter how he willed it on the battlefield. “You and I cannot pretend forever. When the truth is brought to the light, I promise to stay by your side, though.”

“But what about you?” Lysithea frowned, peering at him with those rose quartz eyes.

“I need no aide, Lysithea. I will be perfectly fine when the time comes.” He smiled reassuringly.

“Are you sure about that?” She leaned against his shoulder. “You know, I think I have every reason to worry about you. The entire thing with your dad and his weird cryptic thing in that letter you showed me, you haven’t been talking to Claude… It’s concerning, Lorenz.”

“It is perfectly manageable.” He folded his arms and watched the sun sink lower. “Is there anything that’s bothering you today? Since you brought it up?”

“Other than you?” She sighed. “Do you have those days where it feels like everything just..aches? Like you’re coming unglued inside? And it all just starts coming back to you?”

“Often.” Lorenz put an arm over her, and caught a brief glimpse in his mind of six years ago, of another older sibling who had taken care of her. He remembered a name. A smile. The music of her voice. And she was gone. And she had asked Lorenz to be her family, and that was what he would be. “As if all of me has gone to pieces. It happens often. Do you feel that way right now?”

She nodded.

“Then perhaps I’ll scavenge some cake from the dining hall on your behalf later, and bring it to you.”

“Thank you, Lorenz.”

~<>~

To my mother Tifara Danan,

It has taken me a matter of weeks to consider your words and respond to you properly. I am hurt by the matter, and I have been for a number of years, but I now know it is not by your hand or will. As fondly as I remember you, it has been very difficult to properly articulate my thoughts and feelings. I love you. You are my mother, and I have always, deep in my heart, known that you would do anything for me, even when it is difficult for me to remember. It hurts me deeply to be separated from you, and knowing now that it was not of your choice, I am hurt even more. It is a deep injury of sorrow that I fear will not heal.

I ought to give you some semblance of a real, genuine summation of what has transpired since we last saw one another. Perhaps it was explained to you by my father prior to your departure, or perhaps even he knew not what would occur, but I now bear two crests, one of which is a major Crest of Riegan. This has left me in poor physical health, and the memories cause me great pain. However, I have also stepped into many of your old responsibilities in managerial tasks, relations, and bureaucracy, and I have attended the Royal Academy of Sorcery in Fhirdiad. It’s quite improbable such news would have reached you, however; my attendance was not publicly announced, as my father waited for my graduation thereof for my public beautillion. I have cut my hair; perhaps you remember it as a violet color? It is now a vivid, bright white. I continue to follow in my pursuit of playing piano and writing poetry when I have the time. I am, at this time, not pursuing any romantic interests, but I am sure you would be glad to hear that I’ve made a number of friends. The Ordelia house’s only daughter is a dear friend of mine, and I have grown close to the imperial Aegir house’s eldest son and Duke Goneril’s only daughter. My studies are well and successful, and for the most part, though I know you never set foot in Garreg Mach monastery yourself, I find it to be very agreeable. Distance from my father has come to agree with me as well.

I find it implausible that I will ever be able to visit you in Dagda, however. This is not only due to the nature of my position in Gloucester and the limitations placed upon me by my father. This is also due to the constraints of my health. It has been a very long time since I travelled by sea, and I have some hesitancy with regards to my ability to make long journeys. I would like to meet your family, or rather, my family. However, that will require them to visit me. I will not be able to travel such a distance realistically. If there is any opportunity, however, for me to bring you to visit me, I will do everything in my power to arrange such a thing. I miss you, dearly, and I have so many questions for you.

With love,  
Lorenz Hellman Gloucester


	8. Ch. 7

_The sun glittered off the white snow of late winter, the sky above it a vibrant, crisp, cold blue and the trees of the Gloucester woods poked up from the snow like black twigs. Lorenz sat silently in the library chair beside the window, watching birds flit from branch to branch like specks in the sky._

_The adults were talking. His parents, the older Duke Riegan, the steward of the estate, and his aunt. He wasn’t listening. Perhaps he should have been; he heard his name once or twice, but he was mostly thinking about his grandfather. When people died-- as his grandfather had, just a few days ago, so quietly that Lorenz could barely tell the difference, he wondered where they went. Did they go to the Goddess? Did the Goddess really deserve to tolerate his grandfather for the rest of eternity if he was truly the crotchety old man that his mother seemed to act like he was? Eight years of living under his roof, or at least, all of his life, provided little evidence to the counter._

_“Lorenz,” said his father, waving a finger, “come here.”_

_“Yes sir,” he said, chin held high._

_“Do you understand what’s been happening? Sit down, son,” he said, and Lorenz sat on the seat beside him._

_“Matthias, I’ve explained this to him--” said his mother._

_“Yes,” said his father. “But does he know what it means now?”_

_“That we put Grandfather in the family mausoleum?” He frowned. “Mother said you and Aunt Andrea will likely be sad for a time.”_

_“No, well, yes,” said his father. “But now, I have all of Grandfather’s duties. The Duke is here to make sure all of that gets properly taken care of. Do you understand what this means?”_

_“You’re going to do the things he used to. Are you going to go to Derdriu all the time?” He tilted his head in curiosity. He had always wanted to go with his grandfather, and perhaps his father would let him go._

_“Yes. Well, perhaps not quite the same, but I’m going to be on the Round Table, and that means you and your mother will have to take care of Gloucester at times without me.” His father took off his reading glasses, setting them aside._

_“Yes sir,” Lorenz nodded, adopting his new duties and sense of importance quickly. “Father, are you sad about Grandfather?”_

_“Yes,” he said, “of course I am. But right now, son, there are many other things that need done.” But Lorenz could tell. He wasn’t telling the truth._

~<>~

“Lorenz.” The professor gave him a pointed look as they stood on the battlefield at Gronder. It had been three days of dragging their feet and wagons, of campouts and laughter, and they had awoken to a beautiful dawn rising over the meadow where they were supposed to cause one another bodily harm. Now, in their full armor and on their mounts, at the position behind the creek, Professor Eisner had them aligned like pieces of a set.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, lilac eyes meeting hers. He trusted her, but it was because he trusted her that he was unafraid to question her recently. He had seen them barely scrape through before.

“I want you and Claude on the advance on the bridge to the east. You’re taking Edelgard by surprise and putting Hubert out of commission before he becomes a problem for the rest of us.”

“Claude?” Lorenz furrowed his brow in worry. “Professor, I have no intention of questioning you, but usually, am I not with Marianne or Lysithea? Or, are the three of us not together?”

“This isn’t the usual battle.” She pushed back her dark hair. “Lysithea’s with me, and Marianne is with Ignatz and Raphael. I need you to front for Claude, and you’re a solid mounted unit. You’re advancing to the east. If all goes according to plan, then Hilda and Lysithea will meet you two at the last barricade. We’ll flank the last of the Black Eagles after Hilda handles Dimitri.”

“You’re sending _Hilda_ after Dimitri?” Lorenz was appalled. Was the woman completely insane?

“Yeah, it’ll be a healthy challenge for her. She’s been coasting too long.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, Lorenz. It’s a practice battle.”

“The mock battle that defines our academic year, and you’re telling me not to worry.” He huffed out of his nose, and mounted his horse, patting it.

“Yeah,” she said. “Have fun!” she called as she turned around and the horn to begin sounded.

Claude was already two hundred feet to the east; to shout after him would be silly. Instead, he rode to his side, behind the trees as some cover before they crossed the bridge. “Do you have a plan?” he asked.

“Getting there,” said Claude, ducking behind a tree watching Hubert and Ferdinand talk to one another. “Alright. I got a plan. I’m going to get Ferdinand taken care of first,” he said, pushing back a few strands of dark hair, “and you hold off Hubert. You can resist magic better than I can, so I need you to keep him preoccupied. Hopefully, if I get Ferdinand taken care of fast enough, I can back you up.”

“Are you...by chance, have you lost partial functioning in your cranium? Ferdinand is too heavily armored for you to cause any damage whatsoever.” Ferdinand peered past the trees at him. “And Hubert far outclasses me as a mage.”

“You got a better plan?” Claude nocked an arrow.

“I...do not.” He pursed his lips. “But that does not make your plan legitimate.”

“Alright, so how do you propose we approach this? You and Ferdinand are too evenly matched to damage one another, and you probably shouldn’t waste your spells so early, and I can’t take Hubert out in one go, and he’ll have a comeback right off the bat. It’s the only way. So I’m thinking, we keep stealth on our side, I get enough damage on Ferdinand to take him out of commission right off the bat--”

“How do you know that you can manage such a thing?” asked Lorenz in a whisper.

“I’m the best shot in our class.” Claude glanced up at Lorenz. “I don’t miss often.”

“Alright, let’s assume you succeed in that regard. That doesn’t, realistically, give us any way to take care of Hubert.”

“You have a _lance_ , Lorenz.” said Claude, flicking his finger against the shaft of Lorenz’s long lance. “Shit, sh sh sh,” he said, ducking. “They’re crossing the bridge. Do you think they saw us?”

“Master tactician,” hissed Lorenz. He watched the both of them talk as they followed the road, heading, after the bridge, westwards towards the starting point. “They think they’re going to flank the Professor and Lysithea.”

“No, they don’t,” whispered Claude. “They’re baiting us.” He slowly took aim at Ferdinand’s shoulder, drawing his bow back to his ear. The cord tugged against his cheek, eyes dead set-- this was an archer, thought Lorenz. 

“Wait, and you’re taking it?” asked Lorenz, barely a whisper in his mild panic. Claude beamed at him as he let go of the arrow, which thunked into the chink in Ferdinand’s shoulder. “Claude!”

“Brace yourself,” said Claude, leaping out of the brush and firing three more in succession as Ferdinand yelped, Hubert flying immediately to the offensive against Claude, the vinegary smell of dark magic in the air-- Lorenz winced in nausea at the stench, but pulled himself out of it, lance jabbing into Hubert’s side, with a swift dodge on the mage’s part, with a fling of a curse in Lorenz’s direction.

It landed, and Lorenz steadied himself on his horse with a grimace, rattled, but he dove once more with his lance, successfully landing a blow on Hubert’s other shoulder.

“Aha!” said Claude with a laugh, pointing the arrow into Ferdinand’s face. If he let go-- Lorenz didn’t want to think about that. Ferdinand, already bleeding from his shoulder, winced.

The beacons that indicated when students had taken enough damage to count as defeated, lit up from Ferdinand and Hubert’s positions, a scarlet beam shooting up. It was an enchantment of Hanneman’s, and Claude looked up at it for a second with a proud grin.

“Taking the bait worked, huh?” he said, glancing at Lorenz.

“Such a smug demeanor is unbecoming on house leaders,” said Hubert with a scowl that only made Lorenz beam with pride.

“Defeat doesn’t suit you,” said Lorenz, sitting higher on his horse. “Besides, this is only a practice battle. Ferdinand, I hope that our personal relationship is unaffected by this.”

“I still have every intent of meeting all our reservations for tea time,” said Ferdinand, nodding, but obviously in some pain. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Hubert and I will be visiting the infirmary tent. Thank you for a fine few moments of battle!”

“Will do! Take care of yourself, you two!” said Claude with a wave and a beam that would’ve won anyone to his side, and for a moment Lorenz caught a glimpse of a leader, in the golden sunlight, who had just lodged an arrow in a classmate’s shoulder and had still garnered his politeness. Then again, Ferdinand was always cheery.

“Our next orders are to head northward, are they not?” Lorenz looked up the hill, where Bernadetta had been at the ballista. He had caught her eye a few times in the dining hall, where she promptly looked away-- he wondered how she was handling the heat of battle. A flash of blue-- that would be...if he had to guess, Ingrid or Sylvain. But no yellow yet. That was a good sign if ever there was one.

“Yep,” said Claude, watching Hubert and Ferdinand out of the corner of his eye. Lorenz couldn’t read whether he felt sympathy or not for them, but he knew that he himself did. It was necessary to win, of course, and not personal in the least, but bringing other people pain, even when required of him, was not satisfying. “Petra’s up by Edelgard. I think she’ll be heading our way to check things out soon.”

“Petra,” repeated Lorenz. “She’s quite capable, is she not?”

“She is. Great with a sword, better with a bow, and faster than you or me could beat. Plus, she’s far more likely to catch us off guard.”

“How would you know such a thing?” asked Lorenz, more curious than suspicious.

“She failed to teach me tree climbing a few weeks back,” said Claude with a shrug.

“What does that have to do with--”

“Sh.” Claude poked his head around the low earthen wall, hands digging into the grass. “I heard something.”

“You heard a bird or something of such nature,” said Lorenz, pushing back his hair. “I can see Petra and her soldiers. They’re just west of Edelgard, heading southwest. We aren’t in any danger right now.”

“That’s bold,” said Claude, relaxing. “How’s the weather up there, anyways?” Claude beamed, a joyful tease. “Sunny?”

“It’s delightful,” said Lorenz primly. “We ought to focus on the matter at hand. Is there any way we can aid our classmates?” He craned his neck, catching two blue beacons-- then one yellow. “Please tell me you have no intention of waiting this out?”

“Of course not,” said Claude, ducking from behind the earth wall. “I’m waiting to get some distance between us and Edelgard, since she’s heading that way,” he said, pointing west, “and then flanking her and Petra. The professor was focused on taking out the Blue Lions straightaway, but I think that’s who Edelgard saw as a threat first too, since that’s the way she moved first, other than sending Hubert and Ferdinand south. I think what she’s going to do now,” he said, twirling an arrow between his fingers, “is try to pick off whatever’s left of our houses and the Blue Lions after we’ve fought, even accounting for the professor.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s why we’re flanking her. She probably thinks we rejoined the group for a full-force finisher over on poor Dimitri over there, and hasn’t accounted for two of us being behind her. What you have to do,” he said, “is stay as concealed as you can in the trees to the north. Can do?”

“I’ll admit that you’ve thought this through rather thoroughly,” said Lorenz, wary, “but we’re marked higher the fewer casualties we have. Don’t you think that’s a rather sluggish tactic for a rapidly approaching problem?”

“How can we improve it?” asked Claude, walking ahead between the earthen barriers. Lorenz held back a distance.

“Your range. How precise are you with distant shots?”

“I’m not Ashe,” said Claude. “But I could probably still hit. What are you suggesting?”

“I suggest we catch up to her as soon as we can,” he said, “but you conceal yourself in the trees, while I target her with a spell or two. Come at her from both directions. Perhaps she’s too armored for any sustained damage from you, but you’ll catch her attention and stop her in her tracks, and I shall handle the brunt of the damage. Once she’s taken care of, I trust that we can handle Petra together?”

“You know this goes against everything Teach told us, right?” Claude raised an eyebrow.

“I’m well aware, but I’m also aware that our professor did not account for this. She ought to hope she doesn’t lower our marks for displays of initiative, for her sake.”

“Thinly veiled threats, Lorenz? Tsk tsk,” joked Claude. “So the plan is-- I fire at Edelgard from the treeline to get her to stop for a moment, and you use the element of surprise and proximity to get some sick hexes in there?”

“It’s not-- yes. That would be the plan. How much of a lead should we let her get? Fifty meters?” Lorenz shaded his eyes, peering at the two of them from the distance, the glare a harsh white blue in the morning sun.

“Yeah,” said Claude. “She can’t walk too fast with all that armor, right? And Petra’s pacing herself with her.”

“Right.” Lorenz pursed his lips. “We need a signal.”

“Not a problem,” said Claude, bending down and plucking a blade of grass. “Whistle. You got something?”

“I have a pocket mirror.”

“Of course you do,” laughed Claude.

“It’s for practical purposes,” bristled Lorenz. “You ought to move ahead. You need the advance.”

“On it,” said Claude with a lazy mock salute. “See ya on the other side, Lorenz! Do us proud!”

“Have I ever been known to disappoint?” said Lorenz with a smarmy grin as he watched Claude vanish into the trees. “Best of luck, Claude. My eyes are open.”

And open, they were. Lorenz had keen instincts. A flash of yellow through the treeline, perhaps sunlight or a trick on a branch to one who didn’t know what they were looking for. A crunch of branches, low and quiet. He hushed his horse, and could catch the wind of Petra and Edelgard’s voices as they talked. He raised the mirror to flash towards Claude, to signal that he was ready, a bright white beam of sunlight flashed to the forest. There was fifty meters to Edelgard, a distance he could quickly traverse on horseback. Over the hill, he could see Lysithea laughing, a red flash-- ever so distant, but that had to be her.

A whistle. Petra stopped and--

An arrow whizzed past Petra’s face, into Edelgard’s side, and Lorenz broke his horse into a sprint. Hoofs pounding, a determined Lorenz approached from behind, and he could see the panic in Edelgard’s bright violet eyes, Sagittae gliding at his fingertips, the prick of dark magic’s vinegary smell-- and the violet orb flung at Edelgard. She dropped her shield to dodge the second, but was clearly already ragged.

“Lorenz!” yelled Lysithea, cupping her hands over her mouth. “I’m on my way!”

“Lysithea--” He raised his lance to try to brace himself for Edelgard’s incoming blow, and Claude fired another arrow, this time at Petra, who smiled as she dodged, lightning fast.

Lysithea skidded down the hillside, her long robes dragging behind her, running towards the fray, the professor tailing her, and Ingrid and Felix tailing the professor as she waved her sword at them vaguely.

“Shit,” yelled Claude, nocking another arrow and aiming at Edelgard. “Lorenz!”

“Yes-- Ah!” The flat of Edelgard’s axe slammed against his shoulder, throwing him from his horse. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and prepared himself to dodge whatever came next. It would be impossible to stand in his heavy armor. A golden glow bathed his shoulder even through his armor, the slow sickening mend of that damned Riegan crest, and Edelgard narrowed her eyes.

“I suppose,” she grunted as she hefted her axe back over her shoulder, “you thought you would sneak up on us?” She slammed her axe into where his arm was a moment before he pulled it away. “I suppose you thought you could get in my way?” Her eyes flashed, and for a moment— no, that wasn’t recognition, not the kind he’d felt with Lysithea. This was a different kind of familiarity. It was like seeing the same words written on different paper, in a different hand.

A yelp from Lysithea, fifteen, maybe twenty feet away, and he scrambled to make for her aid as a red flash signaled Petra’s defeat.

“Not so fast,” she called, almost sounding like an irate teenage girl again for another moment. Lorenz prepared himself for another curse, steeling himself—

But he didn’t need to. One of Claude’s arrows, with sun-gold fletching, whirred into Edelgard’s shoulder and she dropped her axe as a red beacon shot up.

Panting, Lorenz slumped against his horse as Edelgard didn’t look back at the rest of them, striding back to the infirmary tent with Petra. Two flashes of blue— Ingrid and Felix, he guessed, by the way the professor pursued.

“Well,” said Claude, patting Lorenz’s shoulder as he winced, “that was fantastic. Great work, and Lysithea, we couldn’t have done it without your help.” He beamed.

“Mind the shoulder. Edelgard is far stronger than she looks.” He rubbed at it wearily, but smiled. “Without your splendid marksmanship, I’m certain Edelgard would have severed at least one of my limbs.”

“Don’t be modest,” joked Claude. “It probably would’ve been two. What’s the hold up? I might’ve miscounted but didn’t we win?”

“No,” said Lysithea, shaking her head. “Dimitri is still down in the ravine. Apparently he’s more trouble than the professor predicted. It might’ve been smarter to leave him to Edelgard after all.”

“I’ve got faith in Hilda, Ignatz, Marianne, and Raphael. They’ll scrape out.” Claude began walking anyways, Lorenz noticed.

“Dimitri already took out Marianne, actually.” Lysithea pursed her lips.

“You’re joking. Did the professor just...send her out without any defense? Marianne is our healer. How are we—“

“Ignatz and Raphael were supposed to. But they got caught up with taking care of Dedue and Ashe.” She shook her head. “I don’t think the professor thought through anything past the first few moments of battle.”

“You shouldn’t say such things about your instructor,” said Lorenz. “Give her due respect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Lysithea, as all of them approached the ravine. Hilda’s squeaks were audible fifty meters off.

“Shh,” said Claude, back against a tree. “Stay back, you two.” Ignatz was visible, crouched behind Raphael wildly firing arrows as Raphael defended himself against Dimitri’s lance. Few of them hit, and Hilda’s axe swings were just moments behind Dimitri’s movements. This was a long dance. And like that, with one golden arrow, Dimitri, slid off his horse, and Hilda ended the dance with a flat blow to his leg.

~<>~

“You went against my orders and plan. Both of you. You put Lysithea, my adjutant, at risk. And Claude, you knew well that you were not evenly matched with Petra. Lorenz, it was careless of you especially to try to face Edelgard. She could’ve broken your lance like a toothpick.”

“Teach—“

“I’m not finished,” she said, holding up a finger. “However, you both showed great assertiveness and initiative and you were ready for a problem I hadn’t foreseen. And you both stayed in the battle afterwards. I’m giving you B’s.”

“Please consider my average—“ Lorenz protested, the canvas tent dampening the post battle murmurs outside.

“I did.” She frowned.

“Teach, can I say something?”

“Hm?”

“Outside of lecture, I think this is the most I’ve heard you talk.” Claude beamed. “Thanks for not failing us.”

It suddenly struck Lorenz that Claude was playing the long game— the game of alliances and group victories over the personal, the game of taking what he would get with a smile and finding a way to use it.

“Of course. Both of you head to the infirmary. Ah, wait, Lorenz, you stay.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Claude with a snap of his fingers. He closed the tent behind him but Lorenz could’ve sworn he heard Claude’s footsteps move more slowly.

“For which reason have you detained me? Ah, can we handle it with some haste? Edelgard is very quick with that axe of hers and my shoulder is unfortunately one of her victims.”

“Two things. Did you ever write that letter?” She furrowed her brow.

“Yes. Months ago.” He frowned. It must have been on her mind. “May I ask about the second matter?”

“Your hair,” she said, pushing back her deepwater blue strands of messy hair. “It wasn’t always white. How long ago did it change?”

“Just under six years.” He fidgeted. “Ignatz may have told you?” It was a hunch.

“Something about estate portraits,” she said. “He and Claude have been talking in conspiracies. It made me curious about all the secrets my students have. Go get that shoulder taken care of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry this update took ten million flipping years. between religious holidays, end of term projects, and my real life becoming a train wreck, this was rattling around the writing factory i call my brain for three weeks lol


	9. Ch. 8

_“Shh, shh, shh,” laughed his mother, walking backwards in her day dress, her dark hair loose for once. “Lorenz, you have to be quiet.”_

_“Why?” he asked, violet eyes wide with curiosity, his hair loosely, messily tied up, still wearing his dirty play clothes. “It’s just the kitchen. Why are we going to the kitchen?”_

_“I’m going to show you something special,” she said, turning back around and ducking into the kitchen corridor of pantries and wine cellars and great oak doors, the well worn stone floors underfoot and the daub walls smelling of a hundred, two hundred years of wear and cooking and rich kindness, still warm with the death throes of summer as autumn rose victorious. “You’re going to help me.”_

_“With what?” He frowned as his mother opened one of the pantries, pulling out a few jars and bundling them in her arms, as if she had done it a thousand times, and then balanced a basket of apples atop it all, a smile on her face. “Father’s gone to Derdriu, we aren’t surprising him--”_

_“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s a holiday in my homeland today. I’m inviting you to celebrate with me.”_

_“A holiday?” Lorenz tilted his head. “Is it...is it the Goddess?” His mother set down the things on the vast wooden counter block, and reached for one of the aprons; the kitchen staff had been dismissed for a break during the new Count’s absence and his mother had been cooking alone, foods Lorenz had never tasted, and food that had made his mother cry once, he saw._

_“No,” she said, shaking her head. “The god where I’m from has a different name. Not the Goddess. Put on your apron. We’re making a loaf of bread. Ah!” she laughed as she searched for a bowl._

_It was a sticky, sweet dough, and Lorenz helped knead it, pushing up his sleeves as his mother talked. She told stories about herself and her sisters, laughing about her mother, explained that her aunties had made better bread than she ever could, but she wanted to try again anyways-- and Lorenz realized his mother was from a place, and had a story, that he, at eleven, would never know. She set it in a bowl to rise, and started the fires of the oven._

_“Mama,” he said, sitting beside her on the floor as she lowered the pan of bread into the fire, “what holiday is it?”_

_“It’s the New Year in Dagda,” she said, pushing back her dark hair. “I used to spend it with my family, but now, I have this family.” She stood up, brushing off her hands on her apron. “We used to party all through the night, and then pray in the temples. My mama, most of all.”_

_“But you never go to the churches,” said Lorenz, perplexed._

_“One day, you’ll understand a little better.” She sounded mournful, but Lorenz couldn’t place why._

~<>~

A pitch of thunder clapped, the hard rain pouring over the monastery. It was one of the few weekends off that the professor had let them take, and Lorenz had initially intended to take tea with Ferdinand in the rose garden, but due to inclement weather, his plans had changed. He held his leisure reading close, tight under his dark violet jacket, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. He stopped at the top of the staircase of the primary hall, breathing for a moment, chilled to the bone, his joints stiff with the humidity. His shoulder still ached from two weeks before, but there was nothing to be done on that matter.

He held his chin high as he approached the open library door, and he could hear the rain pounding against the stone roof, the plink against windowpanes-- and whispers. Voices he knew.

“Ignatz, can you hand me the letter?” A crinkle of parchment, and the warm crackle of Claude’s voice kept to a hush. “Dated to, uh, October fourteenth.”

“Right, that’s the same day the summons for Raphael’s parents went out.” Lorenz could hear papers, the rustle of many of them moving, the flipping of pages, a clatter as something fell to the floor. “Ah, here’s that one.”

“Oh,” said Marianne-- Marianne was in there? Lorenz pushed his rain-soaked hair off his face and poked his head around the edge of the door. It was just those three. “You’re certain it’s Count Gloucester who conspired all of this?” Her voice was a low, soft creak, barely audible.

“It’s where everything points to. Honestly,” said Ignatz, laying the papers flat with a crisp swoosh, as Lorenz could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “There’s only a few loose ends.”

“What loose ends?” Claude tapped his fingers against the desk, and Lorenz could hear the squeak of a chair. It was easy to imagine Claude, leisurely leaning back in the desk, papers in hand.

“Well, a few things,” said Ignatz. “I was hoping you’d be able to help, Marianne, that’s why I asked you to come. I would’ve tried to talk to Lysithea, but she...was rude when I was trying to be polite. So first,” said, pushing around papers, “I...well, I don’t know how much I really should be saying while still respectful of the person who left these notes--” Ignatz cleared his throat, and Lorenz jumped. They couldn’t see him around the corner and he was being quiet, wasn’t he? “But these letters from the Gloucester estate to the Empire are earmarked, and there’s also no other occurrences of correspondence to these addresses after the following spring. I couldn’t dig up any of the letters, but I just think it’s weird that they’d be singled out. And, the dates line up with the period just after Godfrey and the Kirstens’ deaths.”

“How would those have any relationship?” Marianne asked.

“I don’t know,” admitted Ignatz. “I was hoping you might. Your father works closely with Count Gloucester, you would’ve been around for this time, right?”

“Adopted father.” Marianne’s voice wavered. “No. I wasn’t. I didn’t meet the Count in person until two years ago, well after all of this,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Claude. “Your parents were minor lords, then you were adopted by Margrave Edmund. You hadn’t met Count Gloucester before then? Or any of the Gloucesters?”

“Well…” she trailed off. “I had met the Countess once. She attended a town hall meeting.”

“The Countess?” Lorenz could hear the concentration in Ignatz’s voice. “She vanishes from all records in Fodlan after this. That’s the second loose end.”

“Is it right for us to pry?” Marianne’s voice was softened with doubt, and silence took the conversation for a moment. “Wouldn’t this be personal for a classmate of ours?”

“The records are all accessible,” said Claude, tone thoughtful. “But maybe you’re right. Some loose ends should stay loose. We have what we wanted to learn.” Lorenz was, well, surprised. He had expected Claude to be insatiably curious, or at least more inquisitive, but he had never thought of him as restrained.

“Well--” paused Ignatz. “There’s one last loose end. There’s...I’m sorry, this is sort of squeamish.”

“Do you want me to read it?” Marianne offered

There was a quiet shuffle of paper, and he could hear her clear her voice.

“An order of ten clean vials and hollowed needles and preserving salts-- oh.” The sound of a crisp crease of paper, then silence.

“So what’s the implication here?” Claude sounded hesitant, calculated, and Lorenz could hear his guard going up.

“Preserving salts are used for...blood.” Marianne’s voice quavered.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” said Claude, standing up, and Lorenz could hear him pacing and ducked lower, back flat to the wall. “What would they do with _blood_? Why did the Countess vanish? Why hide it behind an art deal?”

“I didn’t promise I had all the answers,” said Ignatz. “I just had a few pieces to the puzzle.” He paused a moment. “How well did you know Godfrey?”

“He and I were...close.” Claude sighed. “This just gets weirder and weirder the deeper you dig.”

Lorenz had decided long ago that he wasn’t going to walk into the library for this conversation, not in ten million years, not if he had been promised all the treasures of the Adrestian Empire, slowly sidling and tiptoeing back along the wall to linger in one of the corners of the second floor. And he would’ve gotten out of it, too.

If it hadn’t been for the professor.

“Lorenz,” she said cordially, striding towards the library. “Were you just leaving?”

“Just arriving, actually,” he said, straightening himself in dignity and praying that it was quiet enough for them not to hear the preceding discussion from inside the library.

“Hard at work studying?” The professor asked as she walked into the library to three of her best students hunched over a table full of papers, and Lorenz followed. Lorenz noticed that Marianne and Ignatz weren’t meeting his eyes, but Claude smiled at him, those green eyes bright.

“You know us,” said Claude, gathering up the papers. “Always hard at work. Why’re you hitting the books, teach?”

“I’m learning to heal,” she said plainly, walking to the back shelves in quiet.

“I see,” said Lorenz. “I’m sure Marianne could offer counsel on the matter?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to pull her away from her studies,” said the professor. “Hard at work, Marianne?”

“Yes ma’am,” she said quietly, folding over the letters and records.

“Good! I’ve noticed improvement in each and every one of you.” Her fingers brushed against the book spines, until she snatched one wide, heavy tome and tucked it under her arm. “Best of luck!”

“I shall accompany you, Professor--” started Lorenz, desperate to leave.

“But aren’t you here to study with your classmates?” She tilted her head in confusion. “I’m perfectly capable, Lorenz, you don’t need to guard me or something. Stay with your friends.” She smiled. “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

“Sure thing,” said Claude with a smile as she left, closing the heavy door behind her. “Lorenz! Just the man we were looking for. Pull up a chair, we were talking magic.”

Ignatz and Marianne were quiet, glancing at Claude with reprehension.

“Magic.” Lorenz cleared his throat and sat primly in one of the chairs. “That must be what you were talking about before I arrived.”

“Actually, we were talking about what happened six years ago,” Ignatz blurted. “Sorry, It’s just-- we have so many unanswered questions.”

“It’s fine,” said Claude. “I promised I’d come to you if I had any questions, anyway, didn’t I? Well, seems we’ve run into a couple.”

“You...did.” Lorenz eyed all of them suspiciously. “I’m sorry, if this is about Godfrey von Riegan, I can’t help you.”

“It isn’t,” promised Claude. “It’s about your mother and you.”

“My mother?” Lorenz raised his eyebrows.

“Claude--” warned Marianne, a still voice calm and quiet.

“I am perfectly fine, Marianne,” said Lorenz. “What about my mother?”

“Well, she disappeared. A month after Godfrey von Riegan died. Now, up until a year and a half ago, your father was the presumed next in line to lead the Alliance. Why would she vanish of her own free will? Assuming it was, of course, of her own will…”

“She’s alive, if you mean to insinuate that my mother was assassinated and it was kept hush-hush.” Lorenz was trying not to let any sort of emotion get the better of him, but it was a Sysiphian task.

“Oh. So where did she go?” Claude looked genuinely surprised.

“My mother returned to Dagda.” Lorenz cleared his throat, and everyone in the room stared at him. He could feel the hot flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. “She’s Dagdan. My parents thought it was best when the conflict with the Empire arose that she return, for both of their sakes. It was very quietly done. Even I didn’t know until months later.”

“I didn’t know she was--” paused Ignatz, “not from Fodlan. You don’t hear much about any of the noble families marrying foreigners.”

“Well, it wasn’t public knowledge,” snapped Lorenz, who immediately felt remorse for his tone. “I apologize.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Claude, hesitant. “What do you mean you didn’t know she left until months later?”

Lorenz had backed himself into a hole now, he thought. “I was away with a magical apprenticeship in the Empire for a few months,” he said, thinking of the marked correspondences with the Empire that Ignatz had noticed, and that Lorenz had overheard earlier. “My father withheld that information from me.”

“That makes sense,” admitted Ignatz.

“We’re so sorry for bringing up any painful memories,” said Marianne in reverent apology.

“Please don’t fret, Marianne,” said Lorenz. “Such matters are no fault of anyone’s.”

“Well, we should get back to studying,” said Claude, collecting his papers and reopening his textbook. “Where were we? Calculating battalion risk management?”

~<>~

The rain poured, and the day dragged along awkwardly between the four of them. As desperately as Lorenz had wished that they would separate for dinner, Lysithea and Hilda insisted on sitting them all together, for camaraderie in the upcoming battle, according to them, and neither were to be trifled with. Lorenz resisted the urge to turn in early, instead lingering around the gardens after dinner in the cool air of early autumn. After pleasant, laughter filled conversation with Leonie and Marianne (and after finding how sweet Marianne’s laugh was), he decided it would be appropriate to bathe and go to sleep.

Something gnawed at him, he thought, sinking into the hot water. It smelled of lavender and amber and cedar and rosemary and the hot steam soothed any ache from practice through the week as well as his stiff joints, and it was welcome to relax, but something was gnawing at Lorenz.

He felt guilty for lying.

Ignatz, he didn’t mind lying to. Ignatz had little investment in Lorenz’s personal life outside of acquaintanceship, and Marianne, he minded little, since between them, he expected little open communication yet. But he had lied to Claude, and try as Lorenz would to shake Claude from his heart and mind alike, Claude had a way of staying there.

He sulked in the bathwater until it was tepid and his skin was pruned, and stepping out and dressing in his night clothes and dressing robe, he returned to his dormitories, mindfully staying indoors. Wet slippers would not do. He proceeded with his nightly routine. A reread of his letter to his father, to check for error or fault, and to ensure that all of his phrasing was up to snuff. A few quiet moments of time to write in his journal and check his schedule for the coming week. A brief respite where he looked out at the stars. A swift few minutes of tidying and laying out his Monday uniform. A soft brush was taken to his hair, to keep it tidy. And lastly, with water, the medication that would dull pain and inflammation while he slept.

He laid down. He stared at his ceiling. And he felt nothing but a dull, gnawing guilt. How could he resolve such a feeling? To admit to Lysithea the things which he had said would almost certainly result in a scolding from her, which, while humorous at times, was often tedious, and at times downright frustrating. To tell Hilda was to tell Claude through a rose-colored filter. And Marianne-- that was simply out of the question. The professor was a respected authority, but Lorenz was skeptical of her ability to be a good listener and friend.

So, he would take his issue directly to Claude himself. It was the right thing to do, to be open, honest, and banish the guilt forever. Surely Claude, who had prodded into the personal lives of every Deer, would face no surprises now. Lorenz stood, put on his slippers and dressing robe, stood with his chin held high and shoulders back, and marched to Claude’s door with a curt rap of his bony knuckles against the wood. It was right beside his door, certainly, but He would arrive with dignity and poise.

Claude answered, half dressed in loose pants and an open button down shirt over a yellow undershirt. His hair was askew, his braid was undone, he had four books out on his desk, all open and noted-- and Lorenz suddenly realized that there were ten thousand things he didn’t know about Claude von Riegan, and perhaps, never would.

“Lorenz.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Somethin’ up?”

“I was wondering if I may come in for a visit?” Lorenz shifted uncomfortably, a full few inches taller than him, meeting lilac eyes with forest green.

Claude stared at him for a few moments, half inspecting, and half bewildered. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, sit down wherever you like.” Lorenz stepped in awkwardly, realizing there was only one chair and the bed, and Claude closed the door behind him. Lorenz settled on the bench beside the window, uncomfortably posturing himself upon it, perched stiffly. Claude simply stood and thought for a moment. “Do you want me to put on a pot of tea?”

“Very humorous.”

“I was being serious.” Claude pushed his bangs out of his face. “Conversational lubricant or something. That’s what my mom used to say.”

“Oh.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “Some tea may be appreciated then.”

“I’ll get it going,” said Claude, setting a kettle over the rack in the small fireplace that had burnt down to dim coals. The room was lit by a few candles on shelves, and it had a certain softness to it that made Lorenz wonder if the brightened lanterns he would now and then enchant, were really the way to light a room.

He was silent as he watched Claude make tea. The ritual was intricate, unfamiliar to Lorenz. He had never seen it quite like this. Rose petals. Cardamom. A sharp, not-quite-bitter smell of a strong black tea, a hum of some song, just a whisper, just a light breeze out the window. Claude set the cup beside Lorenz on the bench, and he picked it up, cradling the porcelain in his hand, and Claude sat on his bed, staring into the cup.

“Listen, if this is about earlier, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have even gone looking. I promised I wouldn’t--”

“I was lying.” Lorenz cleared his throat.

“If you want me to be completely honest, I could tell, and I wasn’t going to pry.” Claude sipped his tea, glancing up at him. “You don’t have to tell me a thing. You don’t owe me, Lorenz.”

“I...I heard your previous conversation in the library. I was listening outside of the doors. And, the professor asked me something after the practice battle that gave me some pause. I feel as though the truth ought to come from my mouth.” Lorenz kept his voice steady and contained.

“About Godfrey von Riegan?” asked Claude, head tilted. “You were twelve, I know you didn’t kill him or something. You know, if I wanted to accuse you of murder, I’d be far more forthcoming about it.”

“No,” said Lorenz, shaking his head. “Not about Godfrey von Riegan, though I have my suspicions on such matters, perhaps...to explain in a moment. I would like you to recall the weekend we met our professor.”

“Lots of mud, bad weather, walking from the monastery--” Claude glanced at him. “You fell down the stairs.”

“And?” said Lorenz.

“Listen, I still don’t know quite what I saw. It could’ve been a trick of the light, it could have been just healing magic.”

“I would like to know what you thought you saw.” Lorenz sipped tea. “If you had not known the simple, objective contradictions that may have been evident in such a statement, what would you have thought that you saw?”

Claude took another sip of tea, and looked at him with tired eyes. “Lorenz, if you know something isn’t true, then it has to be ruled out as a possibility. All I know is, you know some healing magic I don’t.”

“I don’t.” Lorenz shook his head. “Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“You’re not being direct,” said Claude defensively.

“I have to know that you saw such things.” Lorenz raised the teacup to his lips.

“It looked,” said Claude with a sigh, “like you had activated a Crest of Riegan. The golden glow. The healing. The warmth. But you couldn’t have, because you have a Crest of Gloucester, and that’s it. Nobody has more than one crest.”

Coolly, Lorenz took another sip of his tea. He set it down upon the windowsill, and stared at Claude calmly. “You were correct the first time you noticed.”

“You have a Crest of Riegan.” Claude tilted his head, watching out the window, beyond Lorenz. “I’d always had a funny feeling about you.”

“I apologize for not being forthcoming--” began Lorenz, but he hesitated. “It is not meant to be public knowledge quite yet.”

“Were you born with it?” asked Claude hesitantly. “Crest studies aren’t exactly my forte--”

“No.” Lorenz shook his head. “No, I was born with the minor crest of Gloucester, and that is all.”

“I’m guessing it’s a story you don’t want to tell. Lysithea, too?” Claude did not seem to be asking, so much as looking for confirmation.

“What Lysithea chooses to divulge is her own business,” said Lorenz, knowing such an answer was a betrayal of his meaning, but to lie again would be contrary to the purpose of his visit in the first place. “I would prefer not to speak of it, yes. But it is likely a good portion of the reason for which my mother left.”

“But she is Dagdan, isn’t she?” asked Claude. His expression still seemed so distant and impossible for Lorenz to read, but he could tell there was something like sympathy buried in it.

“She is, yes.” Lorenz pursed his lips. “Of course, I am telling you these things in full confidence that you will not, under any circumstances, use them to your political advantages.”

Claude watched him for a moment, as stiff as a proud crane, and broke into a smile. “Nah. That would be underhanded. Why’d you tell me, anyways?”

“I despise dishonesty,” said Lorenz. “Especially from myself. I am above such ill-mannered behavior.”

“Trust me,” said Claude, “you don’t need to tell me that. Even when you try your best, like in the library-- your face tells the truth.”

“I am not certain how to accept such a remark.” Lorenz cleared his throat, frowning.

“It’s a good thing.” Claude glanced down at his tea. “It means you’re trustworthy.”

“Thank you,” said Lorenz. “For what it is worth, I suppose I must consider you the same.” He wasn’t sure whether or not he ought to verbatim state that Claude was the only one who knew his most terrible secret, even in its most bare form structurally. But such a thing was, in fact, as Lorenz was now accepting, an act of trust.

“Why would you hide that your mother is Dagdan?” Claude tilted his head, seeming almost suspiciously patient with the question.

Lorenz cocked an eyebrow and sipped tea. “She herself hid that she was Dagdan from the public. Her relationship to Fodlan and its people was...complicated. My father felt that he could hide me from the scrutiny that would accompany my mother’s lineage by obscuring it from the public eye.”

“Nobody asked you?” Claude seemed to be showing remarkable restraint to Lorenz.

“I was a child.” He frowned. “Children cannot decide things like that, and by the time I reached the age where I could consider such things for myself, she was gone, and there was no longer any sense in the matter.”

“But how do you feel about it?” asked Claude. “You’re old enough to decide now, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.” Lorenz paused and thought. “It matters precious little how I feel on the matter. My mother is gone. It would be ridiculous to pursue her lineage and culture from such a distance when she has been absent from my life for such a time.”

“You aren’t a good enough actor to convince me you don’t care.” Claude frowned at him. “Not a bit, huh?”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not I care.” Lorenz narrowed his eyes. “It matters whether or not it is politically practical.”

“Everything is politics with you.” Claude’s expression softened. “Don’t you get tired of it?”

“Of course I do.” Lorenz slumped his shoulders, losing the prostrate elegance he so meticulously maintained. “It is exhausting. But it is the work I have been born to do.”

“Born to do.” Claude rolled that around in his mind. “Hm.”

“Is there...anything else? Do you have any further inquiries?” Lorenz broke the silence with almost a demand for an end to the uncomfortable tension.

“No.” Claude sighed and grabbed both of their cups, taking them to the basin beside his hearth. “You look tired. Go to bed, Lorenz.” Claude stood up and opened the door. “Just..one question.”

“One question,” said Lorenz affirmatively, standing and shuffling to the door.

“Your hair. Was it always white?” Claude and 

“No,” said Lorenz. “It wasn’t. It used to be a violet purple.”

~<>~

To my dearest mother,

For the brevity of my last letter, I apologize. I have not yet received a response to my first letter to you, which is likely due to the extensive distance which a letter must travel to Dagda. I am eager beyond reckoning to hear from you once more. It is with some limited urgency that I write to you again, as I have some important questions.

My first query is to your schedule in the upcoming autumn and summer. I have found the means to privately meet with you in Derdriu, if you wish for us to visit one another, and I can arrange for it as quickly as is feasible. I wish, desperately, to see you again. I have found a way to conceal the visitation from a prying eye and heart as well, so should you visit, I can ensure some privacy in that regard.

My second query is more urgent and personal. Mother, it is with great love and trust for you that I must ask what you know of the death of Godfrey von Riegan. I am, at this time, an acquaintance of one of his relatives, the grandson of the Duke, and he has attempted to trace the late heir’s cause of death. He has found a number of clues which connect Godfrey’s death to my father, and as the specific frame of his death coincides with both your departure and my temporary disappearance, I am curious as to how much you know. While I would understand any hesitation to speak of the matter with me, under fear of complicity, I come to you with the most loving intentions and desires. I simply would like to know the truth, with no personal gain of my own. Whatever you choose to write to me may stay our secret.

My third query is more personal in intention. Could you send me the recipe to the bread you told me you and your sisters made? I am not sure you recall this occurrence, but on one day, when my father was in Derdriu on business, you had celebrated a Dagdan holiday with me, and we baked bread and you taught me the words to a prayer in Dagdan. I can remember the words, for the most part; however, at times, I dearly long for that familiar comfort of your bread and sweets. I miss you far more than words can say, and I hope the letter finds you well, Mama.

With love,

Lorenz


	10. Ch. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love being a chaotic evil and updating twice in two days

_“Theo, wait for me!” Lorenz bounced, piggyback, on his father’s shoulders as they walked through the streets of the beachside town. A breeze whistled through Lorenz’s stringy, baby-bowl-cut purple hair, and he laughed at his newfound towering height._

_“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do? Chase me?” His mother, a few feet ahead, turned around, and stuck out her tongue. “Matty, I’m just looking for Judith and Jonquil. I can’t see over you and Lorrie’s big purple heads.”_

_“Who?” said Lorenz, his arms around his father’s brow as he watched everyone walk past them._

_“Friends of your daddy and I,” said Theo, falling back to Matthias’s side and slipping her hand into his. “You’ve met them! A long, long time ago. I don’t think you’d remember. They came to your first birthday.”_

_“And you were this big,” said Matthias, holding up two pinched fingers._

_“Was not,” said Lorenz, sticking out his tongue. “Daddy, when’s lunch?”_

_“That’s where we’re meeting Judith and Jonquil. As soon as we find them, or they find us, kiddo.”_

_“Honestly, how could they miss us?” snorted Theo. “You two stick out like sore thumbs.”_

_“Judith!” called Lorenz from over the top of his father’s head._

_“No!” said his mother. “No, no, no, Lorrie. It’s rude to yell like that.”_

_“Oh,” he said, slouching into his father’s head. “Daddy, when can we go to the beach again?”_

_“Tomorrow.” He reached up a pinky for Lorenz. “I promise.”_

_Lorenz took his pinky and wrapped his own around it, a bright smile on his face. “Beach tomorrow, beach tomorrow, beach tomorrow.” He paused. “Can I get down?”_

_“Down you go,” said his father with a grunt of effort as he picked Lorenz up, sky high, as Lorenz giggled, and then set him down. “Stay close to us, alright?”_

~<>~

The incident at Remire Village was horrific. Lorenz and Lysithea had smelled it first, the dark magic, ever familiar, but by the time it was over, the reek of vinegar and sulfur was everywhere, almost as all-consuming as the fire in the town. Killing bandits was one thing. It was another to try to incapacitate civilians. Like problem after problem stacked upon one another, their fearless leader, Professor Eisner, had gotten knocked out of commission early. She had been unwell for the entire month, but seeing her in such straits on the battlefield seemed remarkably uncharacteristic of her. It was worrisome. It was wrong. It was completely terrifying.

But Lorenz had larger worries. He knelt in the infirmary tent, his left hand bound where he’d gotten a nasty, deep cut on a blade. Raphael pushed open the canvas panel, Claude in his arms, and set him down in front of Marianne, who was on her knees beside the professor, who had taken a nasty bump to her head.

“He was down in one of the houses,” said Raphael, setting Claude down onto his stomach. Claude seemed to be fading in and out of consciousness, but the first thing anyone would have noticed was the uniform on his back, burnt to a crisp, pockmarked with burn holes, angry red blisters forming below. “I think he was trying to get some of the little kids out.”

“Thank you, Raphael,” said Marianne. “You’re a huge help.”

“Anything ya need,” said Raphael with a cheer smile that even Lorenz had to admit brightened up the tent. Raphael carried sunshine with him wherever he went. “Do you want me to get Lysithea to help?”

“That’s alright,” said Marianne. “I’m sure she’s needed elsewhere.” She lifted her hands from their teacher’s brow, smoothing her dark hair back down, and turned to Claude. “Oh,” she said so softly that Lorenz could barely hear her.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Claude, his voice a weak, smokey cough. “I need you to write a letter for me.”

“Claude, you won’t die from this,” said Marianne, surprised to the brink of a giggle.

“I know,” he said. “Write. Please.”

“Alright.” Marianne cleared her throat. “While I heal, Lorenz will write.”

“I will?” mouthed Lorenz, and Marianne nodded frantically, mouthing back, _”Distract him.”_

“We’re going to take off your jacket and shirt,” she said, flinching as some skin peeled with its removal. She swallowed-- and Lorenz was suddenly aware of her great composure in the face of the remarkably gag-inducing. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it will hurt. Do you want to hold my hand?” she offered.

“Aren’t you supposed to say it won’t hurt?” Claude turned to look at her with a hazy frown.

“I don’t like to lie. Here.” She reached out her left hand and Claude took it. “Lorenz, can you write for him?”

“I can.” Lorenz flexed his right hand and reached into his satchel for a quill, inkwell, and piece of paper, and Marianne lowered her hand, glowing with magic, to Claude’s back.

“It’s cold!” Claude yelped, squeezing down hard on Marianne’s hand.

“Your letter,” said Marianne. “Tell Lorenz what you want him to write.”

“Say I’m sorry I’m writing from the battlefield, but I don’t trust...Those people. Ah! Marianne, please!”

“Hold still,” scolded Marianne in the most assertive tone Lorenz had ever heard her use. “You don’t trust those people.”

“No. Tell him they check the mail for good gossip.” Claude snorted at his own joke. “Then tell him about Remire Village. The...the fire, the rampaging. Tell him to keep his eyes open and if anything happens, that he has to make sure soldiers avoid casualties.”

“You’re writing about business?” Lorenz peered at him over the top of the paper. “Really, Claude.”

Marianne rolled her eyes as she worked.

“Yes! This is urgent,” said Claude. “This next part is important. Tell him I know it’s the dark mages. Like in the catacombs. You have to make sure he knows that.” Lorenz paused and glanced down at him. There was something Claude had put together that Lorenz hadn’t.

“The dark mages,” said Lorenz affirmatively. “What next?”

“Tell ‘im that he has to put off the November meeting with the trade financiers, because I am-- Mahin, please!” He yelped mid-sentence, tears streaming down his face. Lorenz was now wondering who Mahin was, and why he had said her name instead of Marianne’s. “I am not going to be able to make it that weekend.”

“You don’t have to push yourself,” said Lorenz. “You can write the letter later, back at the monastery.”

“No,” said Claude, “I can’t. Have you ever noticed? They check the mail. They filter letters and reseal them.”

“I--” Lorenz paused. “I never noticed.”

“I’m sending this from the post in the town we stopped in yesterday through the Oghma Pass.” He squeezed Marianne’s hand. Lorenz glanced at his back. The blisters and seared skin that had been bleeding moments before were starting to close, leaving angry swollen welts. Marianne was steady handed, as with her right hand, she closed the wounds.

“Tell him to visit Jonquil von Daphnel and tell her that an old friend of hers is alive.” His voice was shaking. “He’ll know what I mean. And, tell him to be careful.”

“Is that everything?” Lorenz was running out of space; he was a fast writer and an eloquent one, but even that couldn’t buy him more room on the page.

“That’s...that should be it. Marianne, are you almost done?”

“Nearly,” she said. She pushed back her loose hair, leaning in closer. “How did this happen, anyways?”

“One of the buildings was coming down.” Claude coughed. “I saw some kids in the attic. I was going to get them on my wyvern, but I couldn’t get close enough, so I had to climb in and get them out the window myself. The roof collapsed.”

“I see.” She glanced behind her at Byleth. “This was the worst shape we’ve been in. I wish you were all more careful.”

“Some of them simply cannot be cured of their terminal recklessness, Marianne,” said Lorenz, not without a fond smile as he folded the letter into an envelope.

“Just because I cannot look at you, does not mean I cannot hear you,” said Claude, whose neck was bent for Marianne to heal.

“Please don’t fidget,” said Marianne. Lorenz could almost see it in her eyes: the Professor was out cold and holding still, why couldn’t everyone be that quiet?

“Fine, fine,” said Claude. “How long should it take to at least stop feeling like I had boiling hot acid thrown on my back?” 

“A week or two.” Marianne finished her handiwork, then pulled out the bandages. “I have some salves that should help. Keep it covered.” She pulled out a jar of a mint-smelling cream, and set about applying it, then covering him with bandages in silence. Lorenz averted his gaze, fidgeting with his recently bandaged hand.

“That helped.” Claude turned around and glanced at Marianne. “Thank you.”

“It’s my job,” said Marianne with a sigh, rising to her feet and walking outside. “I’ll check on the injured villagers. Lorenz, would you like to come with me?”

“Absolutely,” said Lorenz. “Let us allow Claude a moment of peace and quiet.”

“Finally,” muttered Claude as Lorenz closed the tent panel behind them.

“How have you fared?” asked Lorenz, offering her his arm as a gentleman. She took it patiently, but he could tell her thoughts were elsewhere, as were his.

“This is hard.” She looked around at the smoking ashes of the village as they walked through it. A few dogs were scampering about, yipping at villagers who were poking through the rubble looking for things. “It’s...it’s heartbreaking, but knowing this was our responsibility to take care of makes it worse.”

“We saved hundreds of lives today,” said Lorenz. “Remire Village can rebuild again, because of us. The casualties were minimal, Jeralt informed us.”

“There shouldn’t have ever been casualties at all.” Marianne stopped in her tracks, retracting her arm and wiping tears with her sleeves. “We could have prevented it if we had known who was behind this.”

“There’s only so much we can do, Marianne,” said Lorenz, turning around and wrapping her in a hug. She silently sobbed, and he rubbed her shoulders patiently. “Whatever needs to be done, you have always done your very best.”

“But it’s never enough,” she said quietly. “It’s not enough. All of my life, I’ve been praying to be free from it all, and she never… She never hears my prayers, I think.”

Lorenz didn’t know what to tell her. He simply held Marianne while she cried, and thought, before it came to him.

“Marianne, before I came to Garreg Mach monastery, the very day before my arrival, I tried to end my own life.”

This made her stop and look up at him. She shook her head, those eyes of hers aching.

“The reasons are complicated, but...I felt as if, to others, I was only meant to be a thing for use, not a person. The precedent of prior circumstances was too heavy for me to carry.” He was as set as ever, barely softening. “When I came to the Golden Deer, I began to realize I was not alone. Not even half as alone as I had believed that I was. It does not change my circumstances to have friends. The burdens in my life are still heavy. But I need not carry them alone. Nor do you, Marianne. You are certainly more than enough.”

She was silent, and then, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Thank you.” It was that low, soft violin-voice of hers.

“Now, shall we get to work?” Marianne nodded. “Captain Eisner!” called Lorenz to Jeralt, who was directing Raphael and Ignatz in handing out meals. “Where can we help!”

“You two get over here,” he said, waving to them. “Start handing out blankets.”

~<>~

“Psst. Lorenz.” Claude was standing outside Lorenz’s open window, and Lorenz opened his eyes. “Lorenz!”

“Claude?” He blearily rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Five in the morning or so.” He smiled. “Get up.”

“It’s too early for classes.” Lorenz rolled over-- and then he remembered he was on the second floor. How was Claude out the window? He sat upright, and caught a glimpse of a red-brown wing flapping outside. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the infirmary?”

“Probably,” said Claude. “So don’t tell Professor Manuela. Come on. Get some pants on or something. We gotta go.”

“Where are we going?” Lorenz stumbled out of bed and pulled on a pair of riding pants and boots, and threw his jacket over his nightshirt. “Claude, is something wrong?”

“Nope,” said Claude. “But get out here. You have to see something.”

“Must I?” He reached for his hairbrush.

“You don’t have time to brush your hair! Get out here!” He waved, and Lorenz opened his window. Claude was standing on top of his wyvern.

“You must be playing some elaborate prank upon me. What could be of such great importance that you would wake me at this hour of the morning, and ask me to jump out a window?” Lorenz raised an eyebrow, half leaning over the edge of the pane.

“It’s a surprise.” Claude beamed at him in the moonlight. “You can just jump. She’ll catch you.”

“I have little to no faith in the winged lizard’s ability to catch me.” Lorenz hesitated, watching her yellow eyes blink in the light, almost like a fire had lit them from within.

“Then I’ll catch you. Come on.” Claude held out an arm. “I’m not going to wait here all morning.”

“You should be in the infirmary. The injuries on your back are still healing.” Lorenz scowled at him as he took his hand and stepped onto the wyvern.

“That’s why you’re riding front,” said Claude. “Can’t have you clinging to my back for dear life, can I?”

“I do not want to think about how many rules we’re breaking, or how much trouble we will be in when we land.” Lorenz settled himself into the front saddle, and Claude grabbed the reins from behind him. “If our professor catches us--”

“She won’t. She was sound asleep.” Lorenz pretended that he couldn’t smell the soothing cream for his burns, or the smell of the pine and roses as Claude’s arms were around his waist. “And what’s the worst they’ll do? Yell at us for being up early?”

“You know perfectly well that’s not why-- ah!” The wyvern pulled straight up, soaring high above Garreg Mach monastery with such speed Lorenz felt he would fly right off of it.

“Never flown on a wyvern before?” asked Claude with a laugh as they floated for a second, almost perfectly vertical before the wyvern rounded over to a horizontal flight path.

“I’ve flown many times before,” said Lorenz, “just not quite like this!”

“Alright, then,” said Claude, “we’ll take it down a few notches.”

Lorenz was shaking with adrenaline, his hands on the horn of the riding saddle, watching the beast below him gracefully rise above the monastery, so seamlessly that Lorenz wondered if there was anything between the two of them and the stars. He shakily reached up a hand, feeling the wind between his fingers as they flew hundreds of feet above the green grounds, and as far as until the walls around the monastery were silver ribbons and a tower in the distance.

“Are you cold?” asked Claude.

“No,” said Lorenz. “No, I simply don’t think I’ve ever flown this high before. It’s very...exhilarating.”

“Wait till we get to the good part,” said Claude, pulling in the reins to slow the wyvern. Below them, Lorenz could see the snaking moonlit creeks, the lights of the villages nearby, the great oaks and chestnuts stretching their green canopies like endless blankets in a great rolling sea of mountainsides. The valleys and peaks were swells and troughs, with great snow-capped distant crests, and above them, the waning gibbous moon bright and high in the sky. The sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky a soft, dim blue, the stars on the horizon fading into something not unlike a painting.

“What’s the surprise, Claude?” asked Lorenz, the wind whipping his white hair back.

“The sunrise.” Claude set the reins down and stretched out his arms at his sides, which gave Lorenz a heart attack, but-- but he also could hear the wind, feel the night chill, see the way autumn was taking the landscape.

He was reminded of a few of his mother’s prayers. She had never prayed for _things_ in the prayers she had taught him, her prayers to a God of wrath and beauty and bright things and music. She had prayed for moments like this, he thought. His heart stopped as the first of the sun’s golden rays flooded over one of the mountainsides, bathing the valley in golden light. For once, Lorenz was speechless. There was not a word for this. 

“Why did you take me to see this?” said Lorenz, just above a hoarse whisper.

“I was getting cooped up in there,” said Claude. “Sometimes I just need to fly.”

“But why me?” asked Lorenz. “Surely Hilda or Marianne would have enjoyed this just as well, or Leonie.”

“Maybe,” said Claude. “But I knew which window was yours.” He pushed Lorenz’s hair out of his face. He retook the reins, arms back around Lorenz. “Hold on tight,” he said, and that was his only warning as he pulled the wyvern into a loop, sky high with a loud whoop.

“Claude! Oh, gods above, Claude!” said Lorenz, clutching tightly to the saddlehorn as Claude laughed. “Please! Let me down right now!”

“Right now?” Claude stopped the wyvern, still gasping from the adrenaline. “Are you sure you want me to leave you in the woods like this? No more loops, I promise.”

“Just...warn me next time.” Lorenz said, laughing between wheezes. “Now that the sun has risen, I doubt it will be long until the rest of the monastery is awake.”

“Assuming they aren’t already. I’m safe from Manuela until noon, but I would bet you anything that Hanneman’s up early in the stead of our esteemed Teach.”

“More than likely,” said Lorenz, relaxing as they coasted back towards Garreg Mach. They slipped into the back of the draciary’s open roof, the croaks of the wyverns inside making a ruckus as they came in for a landing.

“I must thank you. It was a very...exhilarating start to my morning, for certain.” He cleared his throat, climbing down from the wyvern before Claude, then giving him a hand down, as stiff and prim as he could attempt to be after such an experience. His hair was windswept, he was half wearing his pajamas, and he had thrown on such haphazard gear that had it not fit him like a tailored glove, it surely would have seemed that he had thrown on clothes from his father’s closet like a child playing dress up. If anyone saw him like this, surely, they would have laughed. But he stood with dignity-- only then noticing that Claude was still in the infirmary garments, the clean blue-white linens.

“And what a sunrise,” said Claude, stretching. “Well, I better get back before anyone sees me, right? Manuela could probably do worse to me than a falling ceiling.”

“I would not gamble on that quite yet,” said Lorenz. “But as it’s probable that I will not see you again until this evening, I ought to thank you.”

“For what?” asked Claude, a twinkle in his eyes as green as the oak leaves.

“For the sunrise.” Lorenz pursed his lips. “May I ask you a question?”

“Considering I’ve been pestering you with them for weeks on end, I would say it’s your right.” Claude snorted, leading the way down the stairs to the exit.

“Who is Mahin?”

Claude paused, clearing his throat. “Where’d you hear that name?”

“You spoke it by mistake, I suppose, when Marianne was healing you.” Lorenz frowned. “If it is too complex a subject for you to explain, I understand.”

“Nah,” said Claude. “Mahin is my older sister.” He held the door for Lorenz. “Go get ready for class. I think I’m gonna catch a few more hours of sleep before I start my classwork again.”

“Good day, Claude,” said Lorenz with a wave.

He had never realized Claude had family. A sister. Maybe sisters. Or brothers. Parents. A family. That thought almost made him laugh-- of course he had a family! Everyone had families! But then-- Lorenz really only had his father, didn’t he? When he returned to his room, the morning post had already been delivered, and another violet envelope awaited him. He threw off his jacket in his room, and nearly ripped it away with glee.

~<>~

To my dear Lorenz,

There are no words for the joy it brings me to know that you not only received my letter, but have chosen to write to me. I understand the pain I have caused you, for which I grieve like more strongly than any ache I have ever felt. Know, my son, that I am proud of you and I pray for your continued safety daily.

I understand that you are unable to come visit me. There must again be a time where you and I are reunited. I am sure you’ve grown into a handsome, dignified young man, since you always took after me (ha ha). Your health is of great concern to me now; should you have need of anything, I will be at your side as best as I can be. Company and advising aside, please remember in your darkest of times how much you are loved by your mother. As I always told you, you will forever be my little prince. And, should any specific ailments trouble you, my sister is skilled with making medicine; she may be able to help in a way which Fodlaners, stuck in their own ways, could not. I am proud of your many achievements, now that you tell me of them, but more importantly, I am proud of the kind of young man you’ve grown into.

Perhaps I should update you on the events of my life, or begin to tell you of our family. Your grandmother, my mother, recently retired from her position in the Dagdan war committee, and she has been horribly bored. We have been eating poorly due to this; she has taken up cooking, and your grandfather is far better at it than her! Your cousin Cadina recently had her first gala, and while I would not say we are expecting an ocean of guests, the stream of visitors to her has been quite steady. We are always on our toes, even in such a large house. Your grandfather cried when he read your letter, my Lorrie-- they love you so much. Everyone I get the chance to talk to sees your picture in my locket. I say to them, “This is my son. I am going to see him again one day.” I’m sure they all think I’m crazy! But I promise, one day, I will find a way to see you again.

With love,

Your mama


	11. Ch. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent a very long time editing and anticipating this one and frankly i am so happy w how this turned out! honestly truly!

_The moon rose high over the Gloucester estate. A thin crescent as it poked through Lorenz’s bedroom window, he rolled over in bed, again, the covers messy and strewn about from his restlessness. He couldn’t sleep. He was aching with nightmares, aching with bad memories, and aching with the pain that crept into his body day after day like an unwelcome guest. He stared up at the cherry paneled ceilings, the dark chestnut four poster bed and its ruby curtains, the violet beddings and detailing. This place had become too much for him to bear at one time, and he could not return to the comfortable frame of contented satisfaction ever again._

_With a heave of his bony, almost-wide shoulders, Lorenz pushed himself upright on the palms of his hands and kicked his legs over the side of his pillow soft bed. He bent down to tug on his slippers and silently crept out his door. The wide hallway along the exterior of the building was filled with framed portraits and lead-paned windows, a few of which were open, tiptoeing to the very end, where a bay window overlooked the woods and hills of the sprawl of his father’s land. He flopped onto the bench purposelessly, feeling thin and weary, slumping against the cool pane of glass. He started to cry, runny tears pouring down his cheeks and indelicate weeps of breath._

_“Sir?” A boy near his own age, with wavy auburn hair and a healthy coating of freckles climbed in up through the open window perhaps ten feet away, and Lorenz jumped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He pushed himself up through the window, a pair of garden clippers over his shoulder. “I heard someone walking by, I didn’t mean to surprise you!”_

_“What on earth were you doing out the window?” Lorenz dried his tears on his sleeve._

_“Trimming the climbing vines on the walls,” shrugged the boy. “I do this every few days. You...okay?” He raised his eyebrows, setting down the clippers._

_“I...I am perfectly well.” He straightened himself. “I apologize, you are a stranger and I ought to be conducting myself in a more orderly fashion.”_

_“You...you don’t remember me?” The boy tilted his head. “Your mother taught my sister and I to read. You would play with us in the garden.”_

_“I don’t remember a lot of things,” said Lorenz, breaking the demeanor he had so meticulously upheld, but he paused. “But you knew my mother.”_

_“And you,” said the boy. “Sorry, maybe we ought to properly… reintroduce ourselves. I’m Evras.” He reached out his grimey hand, and gingerly, with the utmost dignity, Lorenz shook it._

_“I suppose I need little introduction.” He cleared his throat, trying to keep his ever-cracking adolescent voice formal._

_“Not really.” Evras sheepishly reached for the back of his neck, freckles glowing in the moonlight like dark little stars. “We could go downstairs and get some tea, if you’d like. Better than moping around the hallways like a ghost, right?”_

_“Most probably,” said Lorenz with a nod, hesitant. “Thank you.”_

~<>~

“What do you think she’s trying to do?” Lysithea strolled by his side, hands behind her back, still in her classroom uniform after their last study session of the evening. They had both received summons from the same hostess, and suffice to say, they were both very nervous.

“I cannot be certain, nor can I make any singular promises,” said Lorenz, fidgeting with his lapel rose, Gloucester crimson, as they walked, “but I suppose she may have certain consequential reasons to seek an alliance with us.”

“We’re the best mages in our year,” shrugged Lysithea, though Lorenz was sure that she was fibbing. Annette and Hubert both far outclassed him. “Why wouldn’t people want to talk to us?”

“That is not quite what I meant, but-- dare I suggest that we maintain discretion and delicacy in public?” Lorenz cleared his throat, the near-empty hallways of private tutoring rooms stretching for what felt like miles. The fifth one, her invitation had said.

“You don’t think she’s…” Lysithea paused. “Come on. There’s no way there’s anyone else.”

“We cannot eliminate the possibility.” Lorenz stopped outside the door, double checking his cuffs. “Be cautious what you divulge.”

“I have been,” said Lysithea. “Maybe it’s you who needs the warning.” She rapped her knuckles against the hardwood door, leaning against it listening-- and nearly tumbled through it when Hubert von Vestra opened it, expressionless as Lysithea straightened herself and attempted to recompose herself while Lorenz barely contained a smile.

“You’re on time,” said Hubert, clearing his throat as he held the door open. Lorenz could smell sweets, and he glanced at Lysithea, whose eyes he could already tell were brightening.

“Hubert,” said the silvery voice of the princess of Adrestia, “invite our guests to be seated. And sit as well, please.” There was a near familial affection in her tone, and for a moment, it was something in her Lorenz _could_ recognize, the same way he’d seen her at Gronder those weeks ago.

“I need not be reminded,” said Hubert, and Lorenz and Lysithea both took a seat at the table. It was, upon closer inspection, a classroom desk with a tablecloth and a tea setting-- Lorenz called it a tea setting generously, as the tea was clearly there to accompany pastries-- and lit by flickering violet witch-light. Hubert sat beside Edelgard, and she poured them each cups of tea.

“I made note of your preferences before arranging this meeting, so please don’t fret over selections, Lorenz,” she said, with a curt, almost teasing smile. “You both seem to show exceptional promise in magical studies. Have your classes treated you well?”

Lysithea, with polished tongs in one hand grabbing a cream puff, paused. “I’ve been doing well at Garreg Mach monastery,” she said with a nod. “The library is very extensive, and the rigorous coursework has been exactly the kind of challenge I’ve needed.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Edelgard, putting cubes of sugar in her tea that Lorenz could tell was already sweet enough on its own. He noticed Hubert was abstaining from both tea and pastries, and that his attention seemed to be elsewhere. “I’ve found my course instruction to be exemplary as well. Lorenz, your thoughts on the matter?”

“Personally, I find that although the library and classroom studies are rigorous, that the experience in the field is truly the jewel of my academic proceedings. Nothing is a better instructor than experience, and we’ve obtained it in reams.” He took a sip of tea.

“I’m sure that’s true,” said Edelgard with a flash of a smile. “To be frank, I rather envy your experiences in the Golden Deer house. Such fieldwork is not always a luxury the other classes are permitted.” She raised a sip of what Lorenz was certain was syrup with all of the sugar she’d added to her lips, and smiled. “That aside, I did summon you both for good reasons.”

Lorenz and Lysithea shared glances, and Lorenz noticed Hubert glancing at Edelgard in turn. 

“It has been made clear to me, within a degree of certainty, that the three of us have something in common.” She set down her teacup. “I have little fear of naming such things in present company. The both of you have two crests.” Lorenz narrowed his eyes, inspecting her body language, trying to see what it was she was insinuating other than a plain fact that she had seemingly conjured from thin air. “There’s little sense in hiding it when the three of us bear its physical alterations. I suspected it months ago.”

“I fail to see how this is cause for conversation. I am not acquainted with you, Your Highness,” said Lorenz, drawing out formalities for the sake of maintaining distance, “and at this time, I consider it dubious that you would mention such things at all.”

“Why would it be dubious?” Edelgard, with a delicate hand, picked up a biscuit from the platter.

“If you’re only asking us now, why didn’t you speak to us sooner?” Lysithea said, and Lorenz furrowed his brow in thought. “Surely if you had known for months, then that would have prompted you to talk to the both of us then rather than waiting. It would be correct to assume you have intentions outside of just bonding, then?”

Edelgard bit the corner of the biscuit patiently. “In a sense, I don’t think I do.” She waved a hand. “There’s a time coming soon, where I will need allies. As many of them as I can find, and not just people who will answer to me. I will need friends that I can trust. The both of you share something very intimate in common with me. I would like you to be among those friends.”

Lorenz was mulling over the statement, trying to dice her implications and insinuations coated in kindness over, and understand what she wasn’t plainly saying-- but Lysithea interrupted his thoughts.

“So you want us on your side not on the merit of our hard work or talents, but because we just happen to have gone through the same torture six years ago?” Lysithea wrinkled her nose in distaste, wiping a whipped-cream covered thumb on a napkin.

“I do respect you both, of course, but I sought you out because of that commonality, yes.” She glanced uneasily at Hubert, and Lorenz could feel the steam radiating off of Lysithea.

“All of my life ever since those months,” she said, “I’ve tried to define myself by anything but that. I’ve built up my talents and passions and made friends who didn’t have the slightest idea what had happened to me. I’ve looked to the future as much as I can, even knowing that I might not have much of a future to look towards. And I’ve grown closer to Lorenz because I know he’s trying the same way.” She wiped away tears, even though she was burning with frustration. “Don’t you think you could at least acknowledge that we’re people in other ways before you assume we would be your friends in whatever you’re planning, just because we have two crests?”

“I apologize,” said Edelgard, not shrinking or faltering in the least, showing great composure. “Lorenz, are your thoughts similar?”

“I can’t say that they are terribly different,” he said, endeavoring to prevent his voice from any tremor. “Perhaps recognition of our merits and capacity for a close relationship outside of such painful matters is a more sound foundation for alliances?”

“Perhaps it is,” she said, “but perhaps my goals are relevant to the three of us in such a way. The future I want to build with you both, among others, by my side, is one without crests. A world where no child would be made to suffer as we had.” She pensively dipped the biscuit in her tea, taking a bite. “The Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance alike, no longer answering to such an archaic system. A more just world.”

“I am inclined to ask the means you would use to achieve such an end,” said Lorenz, hesitant.

“I can’t call it bloodless.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “There would be great sacrifices should I continue down such a path. I couldn’t promise safety in any way.”

“What about the Alliance?” asked Lorenz.

“That is a complicated question, but the dissolution and reconsignment of local leadership would be key to undoing the crest system. I would like you to remember who it was, Lorenz, who likely handed you over to your captors.” She paused for effect, and Lorenz could feel a heavy weight settle in his stomach.

“As the future leader of the Alliance, this is something I must worry about, Your Highness. I will be responsible one day for all of the countless lives under me, down to the most _insignificant_ foot soldier in the Alliance counties. Should I be worried for their well being?” Lorenz glanced at her suspiciously.

“Come now, Lorenz,” said Edelgard. “You need not fool yourself into believing you will lead the Alliance over the Riegan heir.” She softened her expression. “Your father may well outlive you, and you might not even have an heir to hand your title to. You have effectively inherited nothing but your own suffering.”

“We don’t have to listen to this,” said Lysithea, standing up and pushing in her chair.

“Please sit down, Lysithea,” said Lorenz. “She’s right. Unless things change radically, it would be foolish of me not to acknowledge that the probability, realistically, of ruling the Alliance one day is null.” He smiled and shook his head. “Such is the reason that I will ensure this change myself, unaided.”

Lysithea raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t take such tones with the princess,” started Hubert, but Edelgard raised her hand to ask politely for him to stop.

“How very ambitious of you.” She smiled thinly. “I truly find it respectable. You both seem quite capable, and your bond is close. Stay by one another’s sides.” Something in her eyes almost looked bittersweet, and suddenly, Lorenz felt a hint of guilt, like he had felt on Gronder-- it was the same between the two of them, in a way. They were pieces of larger machinations, reclaiming themselves, and Lysithea with them. “I trust that this conversation will remain in confidence between us?”

“It will,” nodded Lysithea, grabbing a last cookie.

“Those are some of my favorites,” said Edelgard with a smile. “When I was a little girl, I used to break them in half and dip them into milk.”

“I still do that,” said Lysithea, biting into the end, and Edelgard laughed.

“Lorenz, will you keep this quiet?” She smiled, the spring morning’s cold still in her as far as he could tell.

“Of course,” he said hesitantly. “I truly mean it when I say that I wish you the best of luck moving forward.”

“And I as well.” She rose, and Lorenz stood as well, bowing politely. “To the both of you, I hope you remain well. It is hard, even for me, at times.” Lysithea hesitantly curtsied.

“If all things were easy, they would not be worthwhile,” said Lorenz, and Edelgard smiled.

“Good day, to both of you.” She waved, and Hubert rose to escort them back out into the hallway. Lorenz began the walk back-- but Lysithea remained by the door.

“What are you doing?” hissed Lorenz.

“Listening,” she mouthed, ear to the crack of the door. She waved Lorenz over, and he pressed his ear to the keyhole.

“Frankly, I don’t see why you didn’t tell them about von Aegir or Thales. You have all of them under your control. It would be pertinent information to gaining their trust.”

“I’m not playing all of my cards now,” said Edelgard patiently, “and you watched them. I think perhaps they would have been more receptive if they were alone-- but both of them in the same house, already well acquainted with each other, means that they already have someone close to them that they can share that with. I…”

“I know.” He could hear Hubert sigh. “We must bide our time. It will come.”

“I know it will. I just hope… I hope it’s worth it all in the end.” She sighed. “I don’t want to miss Dorothea’s afternoon practices.” Lysithea backed away from the door crack, and Lorenz with her, scampering as quietly as they could to ensure Hubert and Edelgard would not open the door to the both of them listening in on their conversation.

As they rounded the corner beside the stairs, Lysithea stopped for a breather and Lorenz alongside her, slouching against the stone wall.

“Did you mean it?” Lysithea said, pushing up her sleeves on her arms.

“Every word.” Lorenz pushed his hair behind his ear. “I’ve known that my inheritance was little more than dust for a long time. Believing anything to the contrary was foolish. If I can actively reclaim it for myself, I ought to.” He held himself a little higher.

“Lorenz…” She trailed off. “You’re an idiot.”

“Coming from you, I consider that to be high praise.”

Lysithea rolled her eyes. “Do you have a plan? At all? Come on.”

“Lysithea, I am of the opinion that anything can be done with enough nerve. I have spent a great deal of my life shrinking away from such challenges. It is time that I rise to them. Edelgard is not going to inhibit or self sabotage herself in her ambitions. If I am to defend the Alliance and our friends, then I must not do so either.”

Lysithea sighed. “Can we talk about this? Because I don’t want to get pulled into this plan of yours. Lorenz, I just want to make sure my parents are taken care of, and become the best mage I can be for now.”

“I would never ask such a task from you.” He shook his head, fussily tugging at his shirt. “You have endured too many of my idiosyncratic meanderings for me to yank you down into yet another, let alone one for which I have no plan.”

“Lorenz…” She trailed off with a sigh. “I’ll help however I can, but please just don’t let it interfere with our studies.” She fiercely hugged him. “You’re so stupid. I think you’d die without me.” He was taken aback, but this was high praise in affection from Lysithea.

Privately, he decided he would refrain from involving Lysithea in his future plans, regardless of whether or not she _would_ willingly help him. He wanted to keep this part of her from the public eye, to protect her from the scorn which he would surely invite upon himself as a plan began to brew in his mind. Lysithea deserved the peace she so demanded and endeavored for, and after graduation, he would make sure that she had it.

“I might well,” said Lorenz, hugging her back. “Or at least, I think I would be in an abysmal state of affairs without your friendship.”

~<>~

Lorenz marched down the passage to the private study. His ledgers, notes, writing instruments, and books were in hand, an inconspicuous set to all but the practiced eyes. Tucked between them, were the two letters from his mother, the violet envelopes barely peeking out from the insides of the vanilla-white pages. His gut instinct was to shove all of this down, to push it back, to allow himself to work alone. But Lorenz did not want to work alone. Lorenz knew who he was safe and secure to share with, and who would help him. He twisted the knob to the door and it clicked open.

“You’re here,” said Ignatz, looking up from the paper. “Marianne said she would be late in the stables. You brought everything?”

“I did,” said Lorenz trepidatiously. “Before we begin, might I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course,” said Ignatz, tilting his head. “Is it...related to all of this stuff you’ve got together?”

“Merely tangential,” said Lorenz, pulling out one of his oldest ledgers and the letters from his mother. “You are familiar with the art of handwriting identification, are you not?”

“Familiar,” said Ignatz. “Well, familiar enough to tell forgeries from fakes. It’s one of the first tricks in the art business.”

“It’s a small feat, nothing of great importance, but I would like you to distinguish handwritings from one another.” He cleared his throat. “It’s personal matters, more than the business at hand.”

“Right,” said Ignatz, pushing up his glasses. “That’ll be thirty gold.”

“Why-- how unprecedented!” Lorenz reached into his bag. “I neglected to carry my purse with me, would payment another time suffice?”

“It’s fine! I was kidding!” Ignatz turned a bright pink. “Let’s see it. Do you have comparison samples?”

“Yes, of course,” said Lorenz, pulling out the ledgers and the letter. “I would like to ensure that these are the same hand. The left columns on this page,” he said, pointing at his mother’s penmanship on the ledger, “and these two letters.”

Ignatz peered at them, hesitant. He pushed up his glasses, tracing his finger along them. “They’re written with different kinds of pens. This one is for Dagdan characters, used there, you can tell by the strokes. I’ve been trying to get my hands on one of those for a long time! They have very fine tips with precious little bend to the bristles.” Ignatz paused. “But they seem to be the same handwriting. The characters are too similar for coincidence, and you can tell they write in a rush. All of these have some light smearing to the left, so the writer was left handed. That’s hard to replicate.” Ignatz smiled. “It looks like the genuine article.”

“Thank you,” said Lorenz, breathing a sigh of relief. “I am in your debt, gold or no.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Ignatz. “You wanted to talk about the Godfrey von Riegan incident? Why didn’t you invite Claude?”

“I...am hesitant to inform Claude of the inquiry I intend to proceed with.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “He may misconstrue my intentions.”

“In what way?” Ignatz picked up one of the books of letter notes and ledgers from that period.

“Ah, I fear he may think I am undermining his inheritance of the Alliance. It is simply that I intend to use this information in a specific way.”

“I had a feeling you were,” said Ignatz with a pause. “You’re going to try to replace your father before he dies, aren’t you?”

“What a suggestion you make,” said Lorenz, shaking his head. “That may be the final result of the ball which we have begun to roll, perhaps, but I simply intend to bring his charges before the Round Table in a quiet proceeding.”

“That’s… Wow.” Ignatz opened one of the books. “You do have a lot of evidence, to be fair. Assassins handling crest beasts that are tied to the Empire, the letters and packages, everything is definitely there. I do feel like there’s something you’re not saying, though. I won’t push if you don’t want to talk about it, but you know… Whatever happens, I’m here to help.”

“You’re a wonderful aid, Ignatz.” Lorenz sat down. “Where we ought to begin is inspecting letters which we have duplicates of. It’s possible that a cypher was used, in which case, it’s possible to keep track of such matters. Between the Count and the Empire, the letters are especially cryptic.” He cleared his throat. “I recognize that they initially seem disconnected, but I can promise there is a commonality I will explain at a later date.”

Ignatz furrowed his brow. “Well, I suppose I have to take your word for it, but are you sure I’ll be able to help if I’m missing so many pieces?”

“For now, what you know is likely sufficient.” He pushed back his hair, frazzled that once again he found himself unable to tie it up and out of his face while studying. “It is not that I distrust you. I apologize, I feel the need to clarify such matters. It is simply difficult to speak of and explain, and I fear that even if I do, you may not believe me.”

“It’s alright,” said Ignatz hesitantly. “I think a lot of people have things they don’t talk about that are important like that. It’s part of being a person. The same way that you can’t see the base layers of a canvas after you’ve finished a painting, most of the time-- but it changes all the colors on the surface nonetheless.”

“I suppose that would be a similar allegory, yes,” said Lorenz, stretching his shoulders, and as he began to set back to his notetaking, Marianne opened the door.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said, setting her riding coat onto one of the pegs.

“It’s no matter, Marianne. Sit, sit. I ought to have made tea for us all, if we are to be working.” Lorenz smiled and stood, pulling out a chair for her.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting with her shoulders hunched almost to her ears. “We ought to get to work, then.”


	12. Ch. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for emetophobia at the end of the chapter.  
> Sorry for how long this took me. I hope the length makes up for it, because this is about twice the length of my usual chapters!

_“When you cast a spell,” said his mother, raising a delicate hand into the air, “you cannot command it. You release it.” Her palms were outstretched, fingers spread as if she was letting go of a handful of grass into the wind. The golden light radiated from her fingertips, floating in her intended direction. “If you try to command it, then it will hold up all that energy inside, and it won’t do a thing right.”_

_“It’s hard,” said Lorenz emphatically, his long, loose hair in the tight braid of scholarly practice, looking like a miniature adult parading about in his coats and frills. “The tutor said I had to...He said I had to assert myself over it.” He frowned, barely nine and already forcing himself into magic practice._

_“There is a difference between command, and assertiveness.” His mother knelt down. “You can release it and be assertive. What you must do is know exactly what you want, and let go, with the trust that the magic will do the rest.” She pushed long dark strands of hair back behind her ear. “Try it with me. Just something very simple.” She smiled. “Ah. Let’s try to make that piece of paper, move, at your command.”_

_“I haven’t learned that,” he said with a swallow._

_“I’ll show you. It’s very simple. It’s a little like a floating spell, hm?” She held out her hand. “You must concentrate on the paper, but you must, in a way, imagine your hand is holding it, even from here.”_

_“Like I have very long arms?” Lorenz tilted his head and reached out his arms._

_“Yes! Very much like that!” She beamed. “Now concentrate on that imaginary hand moving it.”_

_“I will try my hardest,” he said, with a firm nod. It wiggled._

_“Ah! Wonderful!” She ruffled his hair. “Such a clever little prince. Now, try to move it to the other side of--”_

_“Theophania.” His father leaned against the doorframe, his imposing figure narrow, yes, but still threatening in a way Lorenz was beginning to understand._

_“Matthias.” She rose to a pin-straight stand and cleared her throat. “I was unaware you were interested in Lorenz’s tutelage.”_

_“And the same could be said in response. You are helping him with instructed exercises?” Matthias narrowed his eyes, and suddenly Lorenz realized he was practically not in the room to the both of them._

_“I am.”_

_“Good. I would hate for him to be woefully informed on which kinds of magic are acceptable here.” He glanced at his wife. “I’m sure you’re being careful.”_

~<>~

To my dearest son,

This summer, after your graduation, I will be available for around three months to come to Derdriu. I will not set foot in Gloucester, but I have a handful of friends I would like to meet once more as well as spend time in your company. I will, then, contact them accordingly on the matter. I will also be available to speak on the matters of political events; however, I feel insecure sharing them through written correspondence, and I also feel that spending four pages on such matters is extraneous.

The recipe for the bread is enclosed. I am not sure all of the ingredients will be available to you, but I’m sure you will be able to make do. I am surprised you remember that; this coming fall, we will be able to celebrate together again if your schedule accommodates it. You were very little. I was not sure you would fully understand what exactly was happening. The degree to which your father sheltered you from many of the things surrounding my nationality and your heritage was cause for secrecy, and I was not sure that you could understand why. Fodlan is a place of great prejudice and fear of outsiders. I am glad every day that I am not there, regardless of how much I miss you. I encourage you to travel, to gain a perspective outside of such a backwards place. Even if you return to inherit Gloucester, it would be worthwhile to leave at least once. I have heard from other Dagdan travellers that Almyra is a beautiful place, and very near to you. Perhaps you ought to visit? I would love to accompany you if you so choose.

Today, the last rose in my garden withered. I would be crestfallen were it not for the snow that began to fall last week, painting the entire little courtyard a beautiful crisp white. You ought to see Dagda in the snow! The roof peaks and gardens and ponds and bridges and mountains-- it is a sight to behold. I have enclosed this last little rose for you. They were always your favorite, and although this one is a little measly and white, rather than red, it is from my garden. If you have any blooms remaining in Fodlan (I assume that winter has set, and you do not), please send them to me. I would love to have a little piece of your home, my son. I have heard that Garreg Mach monastery is beautiful in the winter, and that the Founder’s Day ball is approaching. I am sure you will look very handsome, and I hope you dance all through the night with someone who you care for (wink wink). A friend of mine met her wife at that ball many years ago, and I am sure that you will enjoy yourself. You’re handsome, smart, and a very serious gentleman! What is not to love? Unless-- you have been learning to dance, haven’t you? I’m only joking, Lorrie! Have fun, and write me back! Let me know how the bread comes out.

With love as boundless as the stars,

Your mama

~<>~

The evening hour was late. Chewing on the end of his quill, Ignatz was tapping his foot, poring over the letters while Marianne half caught herself in research and the letters on her own. It was not that there was a magnitude of correspondence that had so tripped them and their research for two months. It was how obscured and veiled meanings were, and how much seemed to be half encrypted.

“What if,” said Ignatz, tapping the table, “when they refer to the herds of deer in the letters-- your father, he hunts, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” said Lorenz hesitantly.

“What if they’re references to the crest beasts?” Ignatz frowned. “I know we were assuming they meant the bait, but if you rework the cypher with the numbers, that could work too.”

“Then if you use that cypher,” said Marianne, hesitant as she held her older notes up to the light, “why would the Imperial duke need blood for the beasts?” She picked up the crests book again, going to the back index. “It has no content on monsters.”

“I… I am uncertain of the reason for which the beasts would need blood. Are there any other specifications?” Lorenz held up the other piece of paper from one of the assassins, reading the invisible ink in the candlelight.

Marianne hesitated. “If the cypher is right--”

“It is,” assured Ignatz. “I triple checked it for that month.”

“If it’s right, then they specify that the blood has to have special properties. It could be inferred that they mean to say the blood of crestbearers.” She cleared her throat. Marianne had, through research, become something of an expert on the matter of crests, though she still kept a ten foot distance from it in conversation outside of their investigative measures.

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” said Ignatz. “Why would those be needed? To feed them?”

“No,” said Marianne. “No, Ignatz. Hand me the letter from March eighteenth, out of the Aegir estate.” Ignatz handed it to her hesitantly.

“Lorenz, are you and Ferdinand still speaking?” He paused hesitantly. “I mean, since you’re implicating his dad in...well, murder adjacent activities.”

“We are.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “I have not informed him of the matter. Why would it involve Ferdinand himself?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t,” said Ignatz sheepishly. “But I would hope that if someone thought my parents had killed someone, they’d at least tell me!”

“That is fair, I suppose,” admitted Lorenz. “Would you hand me that cypher key? I am now quite suspicious of this one. It gave us a difficult time with the last one.”

“Here,” said Ignatz, sliding it his way. “Marianne, what’s the thoughts?”

“I hesitate to imply it,” she said, her voice quiet and tense with nerves. “What if the crest blood is used to make the monsters?”

“Wh…” Lorenz trailed off. No, he could believe it. He could certainly believe it. There was probably some chained beast in one of those great frigid basements now, pumped full of his blood. The thought sickened him to the extreme. “What a thought.” How Marianne abided it in such a quiet way, he knew not.

“It’s a suggestion that holds some water. There’s some discussion about the nature of crest relics and blood, apparently-- that it is the blood remaining in the relics that confers their more mystical properties.” She pushed a sky strand up behind her ear. “Would you mind...showing me Thyrsus?”

“Marianne… You bear a family crest, have you not seen its weapon?” Lorenz tilted his head?

“It’s lost.” She pursed her lips. “I simply want to see Thyrsus, Lorenz.”

“We would have to retrieve it from the professor.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “I shall ask her about the matter tomorrow, as late as the hour tonight is.”

“You’re starting to sound a little like Linhardt, Marianne,” joked Ignatz, and she looked aghast at the mere suggestion.

“I hope I’m not,” she said, shrinking. “He’s been trying to sit with me at dinners for weeks.”

“If you need someone to sit with to prevent his advances, we can always sit together,” assured Lorenz.

“I don’t think that will deter him, either, he’s been asking about you,” said Marianne. “Maybe we ought to ask Hilda.”

“Resorting to violence should always come last, Marianne. Surely you, of all people, would agree?” Lorenz teased.

“No, not like that!” She sighed.

“Maybe Leonie would help? She’s got a way of helping in situations like this,” suggested Ignatz, but Marianne began to turn a bright red at that suggestion.

“It’s alright,” she said. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Leonie?” mouthed Ignatz at Lorenz, and Lorenz smiled tightly and shrugged. “Back to work. So if this cypher reading implies the crest beasts were made with the blood… And that the movement formations here are designed to be hidden, then...where are they getting the blood? I mean, it’s not like there’s a thousand crestbearers just floating around Fodlan.”

“Perhaps I could help in that matter.” Lorenz frowned. “Marianne, you had the paperwork of the parcel request after Godfrey’s death?”

“I did,” she said hesitantly. “I hadn’t yet put the encrypted writing through this last cypher, though.”

“I can do it,” said Ignatz, who enjoyed the puzzles. “Besides, I’m really invested now. What do you mean, Lorenz?”

“I am not entirely unconvinced that the motivation for killing him was not solely political. Is not crestbearing blood a resource for a number of things?” Lorenz was beginning to feel a little sick at just the thought.

“It is…” Marianne hesitated. “But how horrible.”

“We’ll see when I’ve got it decrypted,” said Ignatz. “For now, let’s look over what we’ve got. So the crest beasts are definitely from the Empire, and were loaned to your father conditionally. It doesn’t mention the conditions, but there’s a physical meeting between the Count and Duke Aegir six months prior. If only there was some way to know…” Ignatz sighed. “After Godfrey was killed along with the accompaniment and the assassins, and the beast handlers and beasts were both back in the Empire, all communication stops. What’s still strange is that parcel, and why he didn’t just have it quietly done. I get wanting it to look like an accident, but why were the Kirstens dragged into it? And why is the Empire involved? Or the Ordelias, since they’re mentioned a few times, _encrypted_ nonetheless? And your mother? This is such a tangled knot!”

“I know not.” Lorenz laid his head on the table, sideways. “I’m making more tea.”

“Good, I need it. I might just be up all night working on this.” Ignatz seemed almost too enthused. Marianne and Lorenz were both exhausted. He rose and put the kettle on the fire that staved off the drafty winter chill, his hands trembling. He felt ill. Iller than usual, that was. It was always like this in winter, and the stress had been difficult on him, he reasoned, shaky and trying to distract from the gnawing feeling that ate away at him that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

“Lorenz,” said Marianne, standing, “I can take care of the tea. Sit down.”

“It’s fine,” said Lorenz, who knew well that Marianne had a habit of making tea too strong.

“Sit,” she commanded. “You’re shaking.”

“Is it too unsettling? I’m sorry if I’ve been too… eager, I guess,” said Ignatz. “I guess the subject matter of murder could be stomach churning.”

“That is not the matter,” said Lorenz. “I am simply feeling unwell today.”

“Oh,” said Ignatz. “If you want to go to bed, you know, it’s pretty late! I can stay up working. And Marianne, you have early stable duty tomorrow. You should probably rest soon too.”

“I’m fine,” said Lorenz dismissively. “This matter is more important.” Marianne gave him a look of firm concern, but said nothing as she set down the tea tray and Lorenz, still slightly shaky, poured himself a cup.

“What blend is that?” asked Ignatz. “It smells heavenly.”

“It’s--”

Lorenz was interrupted by the door opening with a click. Their professor leaned against the door frame, and heaved a sigh. She had been completely out of it for the last few weeks since the death of her father, and her performance in the classroom was suffering for it, though Lorenz could hardly blame her.

“You’re all still up?” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Past curfew. Got complaints and told it was my problem. All of you. Bed. Now.” She shook her head. “All of you have early mornings tomorrow.”

“I thought I had tomorrow off?” said Ignatz, tilting his head.

“Nope. I’m supposed to give you dance lessons for the White Heron cup.” She crossed her arms. “It’s either you or Marianne, and between the four of us, Marianne, I don’t want to make you go onstage if you don’t want to. And I don’t think you do.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Marianne.

“I have to be up early for dance lessons?” asked Ignatz, crestfallen.

“Yep.” The professor shrugged. “So you all had better get some sleep. Pack up your things, come on. Finish your tea.” She approached the table. “Here. I’ll help.”

“It’s alright,” said Lorenz defensively, sliding all of the papers into a folder and fastening it faster than he probably ever had before. “Professor, there’s no need. We shall head off to bed presently.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll see you all in the morning. Make sure all of you get rest.”

~<>~

Ignatz lost the White Heron cup to Dorothea. He needed little consolation on the matter; he hadn’t been especially excited and Dorothea had clearly been the best candidate. However, as the Golden Deer house, arm in arm, descended the stairs into the ballroom, with Lorenz’s arm in Marianne’s, all of the house as stiff and formally dressed as they could be, he couldn’t help but feel a little badly for their loss. It meant that they were the second to enter the ballroom. Marianne was shrouded in swathes of indigo and light blue, as if she could hide herself in a cocoon of poplin, and thus avoid dancing, and Lorenz himself was regaled in dark plum velvet with white lace and ruby adornments.

“Who’s occupying space on your dance card?” asked Lorenz stiffly as they lowered another step, arm in arm. Claude, ahead of them, in simple bright gold that was almost casual, was dwarfed by Hilda’s floral pink sea of satin, and Lorenz had to maintain a distance of six feet to avoid stepping on it. It was almost ludicrous.

“I’m not dancing after the opening,” said Marianne quietly.

Lorenz glanced back over his shoulder, to where Leonie descended arm in arm with Ignatz five feet behind them, smiling like the sun at some joke between her and Ignatz.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I had no intention of asking you myself without your advance--”

“I know.” She softened. “I knew what you were asking.”

“Alright,” said Lorenz, “alright. But I must inform you that seizing a brief moment of happiness when you may, is not a moral failing.”

She was quiet for a few minutes. “I have two left feet.”

“The Duke Heir Claude von Riegan, and Duchess Hilda Valentine Goneril.” Archbishop Rhea was the presenter of distinguished graduates, her voice clear and loud. The two stepped onto the landing with a bow and a curtsy, and while Lorenz noted that Claude’s bow was a little sloppy-- he also couldn’t help but notice that it was charming. And, of course, he could excuse it: working around Hilda’s dress would give anyone a difficult time.

Lorenz and Marianne stepped onto the landing into the ballroom.

“The Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester and Margravine Marianne von Edmund.” He squeezed her arm reassuringly, and she smiled with dignity, while Lorenz held his head high and accompanied her to the floor for the first dance.

A few of the guests were already arm in arm dancing. Ingrid seethed at Sylvain as he tried to guide her through klutzy steps with a half condescending flirty grin, half tripping over her gown’s cape. Edelgard and Hubert maintained a distance that he would’ve expected from them, but went through the motions with grace he wouldn’t have. Claude had somewhere along the line learned to dance with Hilda’s dress-- the Goddess only knew how.

The last of the distinguished graduates finally were in, with the last call of “Mercedes von Martritz and Dimitri Alexander Blaiddyd.”

The first dance was a minuet. Lorenz stood in line with the men, the delicate few steps front, front, side, to side, with Claude beside and behind him, and Ignatz beside and before him. Their three dance partners, Hilda, Marianne, and Leonie were with them as well, while it seemed that Lysithea and Raphael had hung to the very back of the formation-- likely because neither favored dancing, and it was a safe place to escape scrutiny. The men were to lead the dance, and with a delicate hand, he took Marianne’s gloved one from across the aisle, the two of them entering the orbiting twist with the other pairs.

“Two left feet?” asked Lorenz as he stepped behind, around Claude with the whirls of the dance. “Are you certain? I feel you’re rather practiced.”

“Don’t flatter me,” she responded, “you’ll break my focus.” He smiled, and looked around. Claude and Leonie were both struggling as much as Marianne was.

“You have precious little to worry about.” The movement of the dance changed, and the partners switched where they stood, meaning Lorenz and Leonie were now to dance.

“Good evening,” said Lorenz with a curt nod to Leonie, who he had quietly helped pay for her formalwear even at her own personal objection, insisting that she had paid her debt in full by not murdering him for his unscrupulousness earlier in the semester.

“Good evening,” said Leonie, clearly amused by the charade of playing at ladylike behavior. “Ignatz told me to tell you to meet him in the library tonight.”

“And you did not care to ask him why?” said Lorenz, twirling her as her skirts swished.

“I did,” said Leonie. “He said it was personal business. And who am I to make him tell me? After all,” she joked, “I’m a gentlewoman.”

“Leonie, you and I both know that the heels will be abandoned within ten minutes of dancing and this is likely the last time I will ever see you in such an impractical skirt.”

“I would laugh louder if I wasn’t sure I’d bust one of my dress seams,” she said with a smirk. “When we graduate, you had better hire me for putting me through this ordeal. I was going to just wear pants.”

“And you look very fine and handsome in this,” said Lorenz, who knew that it was her way of saying she would repay her debts, whether or not he would allow it. “I know someone waiting for you to ask her to dance.”

“Sure you do,” said Leonie with a roll of her eyes as they criss crossed partners, Hilda to Leonie, Marianne to Ignatz, and Claude to Lorenz.

“Have you been avoiding me?” asked Claude, not quite effortlessly dancing, but making it look unpracticed. “It’s been a while since we spoke.”

“I have not,” said Lorenz. “I’ve simply been quite occupied with my time.”

“If you say so,” said Claude. “By the way, I’ve heard some suspicious things about the Empire and--”

“Can we refrain from talking politics while dancing?” said Lorenz.

“What else do you talk about during the minuet?” said Claude sarcastically. “Oh, I have a grand idea. What about satin prices? I’ve heard the velvet market in Leicester’s imports have skyrocketed in value.”

“Come now,” said Lorenz. “It is a wonderful way to acquaint yourself with someone.”

“We’re already acquainted,” said Claude, easily whirling around Marianne.

“Then one asks questions. For example, what reading materials or books have occupied your time of late?”

“Nothing much,” said Claude with some pause. “Not that you’d be interested, really, in reflections on historical accuracy in accounts of naval battle.”

“Naval battle?” Lorenz raised a brow. “Not especially.”

“You’ve been burning the midnight oil, though. Poetry?”

“Hardly,” said Lorenz, the two of them wrist to wrist orbiting once more. “No, I have been doing some bookkeeping.”

“I see,” said Claude. “You’re going to overwork yourself one of these days.”

“I doubt it,” said Lorenz as they switched partners, and he found himself hand to hand with Annette.

After every orbit around the room had finally ended, along with the minuet’s meandering strings and orchestral accompaniment, the distinguished graduates dissolved and dispersed through the room as a plain, lazy waltz began. Claude swept the professor, who was a chaperone and had thus hung back, out onto the dance floor, likely, by Lorenz’s supposition, in an attempt to cheer her up. He hadn’t seen her so much as perk up, even then, but something in her countenance did seem to soothe ever so slightly at him. Claude had that effect on people, thought Lorenz: warmth. He was like the moon in that way. A constant comfort, a light in the darkest of places. He could completely vanish, or take up the whole room, and made himself look comfortable with anyone in his company, whether it was the morning sunrise or all of the stars in the night. Yet still he would glow golden, floating in the sky as if the tides didn’t follow his every move!

Lorenz wondered if he was beginning to think of Claude too highly as a rival to remain objective any longer. Even as he tried to hold onto Marianne’s enthusiasm and energy (if it could be called that) from the opening dance through into the waltz in the hopes that Leonie would come ask her, he couldn’t seem to evade the thoughts of Claude.

“You’re a good dancer,” said Marianne quietly as he spun her gently.

“I was enrolled in lessons for a time,” he said as he tried to pace himself both with the music and other couples, and Marianne.

“It shows. I took classes as well, but they never quite stuck.” She hesitated on the step to follow.

“I think you are at your best when you cease to worry on the matter. Though dancing well is an art,” said Lorenz hesitantly, “in the ballroom, it is better to simply stay moving than it is to go to the pains of perfection.”

“I don’t want to step on anyone,” said Marianne, “and I don’t think I would like to accidentally bump someone either.”

“Well, then it is a marvelous happenstance that I lead well, and shall make sure none such thing shall come to pass.” He cleared his throat. “To maintain focus and keep you at ease, would you care to converse? Perhaps on…” He paused. “Horses?”

Marianne cracked a smile. “What about them?”

“Well, your riding instructions are far more advanced than mine. How are they proceeding?”

“They’re fine,” said Marianne. “Early morning rides alone are nice.”

“I would quite heartily agree.” Lorenz’s mind wandered to a month or two ago, when he had been so rudely awoken-- but then, he had agreed to accompany Claude, hadn’t he?

“Your thoughts are clearly elsewhere,” said Marianne apologetically. “If I’m keeping you from someone, Lorenz, you don’t have to dance with me.”

“No,” said Lorenz firmly, “you have not kept me from a thing. I am enjoying myself perfectly well right here.”

Marianne sighed and broke away from the dance, shaking her head as she ungracefully slipped to the back of the room. What had he said? Was it that he was distracted? Marianne was, at times, difficult for him to read, of course, but that was not to say that he didn’t try. He poured himself a glass of the tart punch and took a seat at one of the few tables. Lorenz was lost in thought, staring down at the rosy glass, when Claude sat down beside him-- and he scarcely noticed.

“Why aren’t you out there dancing? I thought you were the premier socialite of Leicester.” Claude leaned against an elbow on the table improprietously, and Lorenz couldn’t help but feel a twinge of endearment.

“Unfortunately, I fear I have wounded Marianne most grievously in some way unbeknownst to me. Until I may make it up to her and approach her appropriately, I am not taking another dance partner.”

“Are you sure you did?” Claude paused, glancing out at the dance floor, drumming his fingertips against the table. “She’s out there with Leonie having a wonderful time, it seems.”

“She is?” Lorenz perked his head up, peeking around the thin crowd. “Ah. So she is.” He paused. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“It’s not my scene.” Claude shook his head. “I thought I would ask you, to be cordial. I want to do my best to make sure I dance with everyone. Even badly.”

“Come now, I doubt you’re that poor of a dancer,” said Lorenz, rising to his feet and offering out his hand. “I am a fine lead, I may help in the matter.”

“Well, I’m not great at following,” said Claude, “but my leading isn’t much better.” He shrugged and took Lorenz’s hand, and for a moment, Lorenz realized that of course, Claude had callouses from archery practice, from the grip of wyvern reins and axes. Of course he did.

Without a word, Lorenz led the both of them to the dance floor. It was clumsy, at first. Lorenz primarily danced with young ladies, regardless of whether or not he was interested in them, so taking another man’s waist felt unintuitive. But Claude seemed unfazed entirely.

“Funny question incoming,” said Claude, as barely a heads up, “but if I hadn’t asked you to dance first, would you have ever asked me?”

“Before the end of the night, quite probably. I have been told that it is good manners to endeavor to dance with every partner, to the point of being near customary.” The distance between them was comfortable, thought Lorenz, but why was he so warm?

“There are so many unspoken rules here,” he said, almost pensively, as if lost in thought elsewhere. “I really don’t get it.”

“What is there not to understand?” Lorenz paused. “The rules of etiquette are there to ensure that no one person is neglected socially at these affairs.”

“But why do you need rules for that?” Claude asked. “Don’t people just take care of each other? Isn’t good will enough sometimes?”

“I daresay it is not,” said Lorenz. “Often, social etiquette is the only thing holding these affairs together. It is an adhesive, not an inhibitor.”

“And why is that?” asked Claude, who sounded skeptical.

“Were it not for etiquette, I doubt most people would even dance with one another, let alone partake in things like conversation.”

“That’s very cynical of you, Lorenz,” said Claude. “So you’re only dancing with me because of etiquette? Or you danced with Marianne because of some rule?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I danced with you for the pleasure of your company, and the same for Marianne.”

“So you’re severe on other people, then, I see.” Claude smiled. “Why would you assume you’re alone in dancing just because you like someone?”

“I would not make such an assumption,” said Lorenz. “I am sure that many of the people whom we see dancing here tonight are friends or at least previously inclined to one another.”

“Yes,” agreed Claude. “So why do we need rules to enforce it if people already like each other well enough?”

“The rules of etiquette prevent people who seek to dance but have fewer acquaintances from being abandoned without partners.” Lorenz pursed his lips. “A spin?”

Claude managed it with some pronounced dignity and grace. “So they protect the least of us, hm?” He looked around the ballroom floor, where many of the more popular students were arm in arm, and to the tables and sides of the room, where many more students were standing by, waiting for dance partners and chattering amongst themselves quietly. “I wonder how well that works.”

“Are you attempting political allegory through conversation about the etiquette of couples dancing?”

“Why on earth would you think that?” asked Claude with a sly grin.

“Must I even… Oh, you are infuriating.” Lorenz shook his head.

“Is it my disregard for the rules of high society that you find infuriating, or is it my dancing? Because I will admit openly that I am not a good dancer.”

“It is that you always find a way to draw talk of politics into every conversation that I begin with you. Even pleasant dancing becomes talk of the state of the Alliance!”

“You think this is pleasant?” Claude beamed, almost smug.

“That is beside the point.” Lorenz frowned. “Surely you have thoughts in your head outside of politics?”

“I think about lunch sometimes,” said Claude.

“That is hardly ballroom conversation.”

“Then what is?” Claude said. “Because I’ve found that even if I like the person I’m dancing with, conversation while dancing is far from enjoyable.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Lorenz.

“It’s so public. Everything must be short and to the point, and the way that everyone moves and talks is all so...veiled.” The song was beginning to round to an end. “It’s like an entire room of locked doors.”

“Then perhaps we ought to bring this conversation elsewhere.” Lorenz cleared his throat as they both bowed at the close.

“I’d oblige,” said Claude. “There’s what, four hours left before the curfew and the ball ends? And you know,” he shrugged, “I doubt they’ll be able to catch _everyone_ who’s breaking curfew.”

“I am astounded by your complete disregard for both authority and the rules.”

“Somehow that really does always seem to surprise you.” Claude didn’t let go of his hand. “The upper balcony looks pretty empty from here,” he said, glancing up at the reception hall’s mezzanine. “Unless you want to stand outside in the snow?”

“Not especially.” He looked up. “It should suffice for somewhere sufficiently private.”

“Alright. Well,” said Claude, nearly dragging Lorenz along, “I know one of the back stairways to get up there from the reception hall, so come on.”

“Won’t the chaperones see us?” said Lorenz.

“Look around,” said Claude, where the chaperones were sprinkled throughout the room and busy keeping students off of one another. “We’re the least of their concerns. Besides, I don’t think even if, say, Shamir could see us, that she’d care.”

“If punitive measures are taken when we’re caught, then I am blaming you.”

“Great,” said Claude, slipping behind one of the nearly invisible panelled doors into the dark, dusty, narrow stairwell.

“This is _disgusting_ ,” said Lorenz emphatically. “Enough dust in here to choke a--”

“Shh,” said Claude, tiptoeing up the stairs. “The echoing in here is shit. Half the building might hear you.” Lorenz covered his mouth with his sleeve and stayed quiet, as Claude opened the panel door at the top of the stairs.

Lorenz poked his head out behind Claude. There were two girls on one of the benches, clearly in an impassioned discussion as they held one another, and on the opposite side of the mezzanine, Linhardt von Hevring was taking a nap. This was...mostly what Lorenz had supposed they would find.

Claude leaned over the balustrade, watching the people far beneath them swirl and dance. Lorenz approached by his side, both hands on the railing. He could pick out individual people-- Bernadetta and Hubert arm in uneasy arm, so painfully awkward it made him nearly laugh. Lysithea was having a lively time trying to teach Cyril to dance when she had only just begun to learn how herself. He caught a glimpse of Dedue and Ashe to the back of the room, talking and for once looking natural. And Leonie and Marianne were still on the dancing floor-- what had Marianne said about not wanting to dance? Well, she had changed her mind quickly.

“I apologize if I was being obfuscative on the dance floor.” Lorenz glanced over at Claude.

“Actually, you’re pretty straightforward most of the time. Maybe a little wordy,” said Claude, “but I was more frustrated with everything else. I don’t like balls.”

“Really?” Lorenz asked curiously. “You’re quite the natural extrovert. I would have thought this was your sort of affair.”

“Am I?” said Claude. “Or, am I just good at playing that part?” That quieted Lorenz. “Sometimes the best ways to make sure everything down there is running smoothly,” he said, gesturing to the crowd below them, “is by making your own day terrible.”

“And you think dancing ruins your evening?” said Lorenz.

“By far,” said Claude, “I would much rather be alone in my room reading or simply talking to people face to face. Balls are a little ridiculous, aren’t they?”

“They’re celebrations,” said Lorenz.

“Celebrations of what? The Church of Seiros’s extravagance and wealth?” Claude leaned back against the balustrade, arms loosely crossed as he faced Lorenz. “I mean, this entire thing is just a performative show of status.”

“It is,” agreed Lorenz hesitantly. He knew that, of course, or else he supposed he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of making sure Leonie had something appropriate to wear or helping Marianne uphold her social graces, and his father wouldn’t have sent him to dance lessons for all those years. “But I hesitate to call it purposeless. It holds great political purpose, and surely you of all people would realize that.”

“That’s why I left,” said Claude. “I was getting a little sick of it.”

“If politics occupy your every thought but for lunch, why would something as simple as a ball exhaust you?” Lorenz was having a grand time trying to decipher his thought process.

“Well, it’s simple. In a council meeting or a letter or a classroom, everyone says what they mean.” Claude slouched. “At a ball, everyone pretends they’re saying something else.”

“Are you saying all of that, down there, as happy as they all look, is disingenuous?” He bit his lip.

“No. Of course it isn’t.” Claude shook his head. “It’s every bit the fun that they’re having. But it can still be a spectacle, can’t it?”

“Then are they just actors in some great stage production?” Lorenz slouched over the balcony in an ungentlemanly posture. “I should hate to take such an opinion of people I care dearly for.”

“No,” said Claude, “no. Because actors don’t really have much of a say in the production.”

“You are confoundingly radical, in the strangest ways,” said Lorenz.

“I excel at being confounding,” said Claude wistfully.

“Am I not the first person who’s said such things about you?” Lorenz raised an eyebrow.

“Not by a long shot,” said Claude. Lorenz basked in the lull in conversation to think, the distant waltz and melody accompanying his thoughts.

“Was Godfrey von Riegan your father?” he asked, flat out and blatantly finally asking. “I would understand, of course, if there was some reason your birth or existence or other parent was not public, but you _are_ part of the Riegan family.”

“No,” said Claude. “No, oh stars, where did you come to that…” He paused. “Well, I suppose that would make sense to you.” Claude paused. “He’s my uncle.”

“You seem to have a whole breadth of familial relations of whom I have neither heard, nor ever encountered.” Lorenz paused. “The more I speak to you, the more I realize I know precious little about you.”

“And you don’t have a breadth of your own secrets?” Claude glanced back out at the dancing couples below them. “You and I are going to have to either place our trust in each other in the future and come to peace with those secrets, or we’re going to have to work around not knowing a thing about each other.”

“And where does one begin with trust?” said Lorenz.

“We’ve had this conversation before, I think,” said Claude. “You said trust was a matter of reliability, and I said that trust was a matter of honesty.” He paused. “Have I been true to my word when I give it to you?”

Lorenz thought about that for a moment. “To my knowledge. Have I been transparent?”

“Barely,” said Claude. “But there’s a difference between honesty and transparency. I would say that you’re honest when we speak.”

Lorenz felt a pit of guilt at that. He hadn’t been honest. Not recently, not at all. If he was honest, he would have told Claude that he was working to dethrone his own father and seize the Alliance by the teeth to rise to Edelgard’s coming threat that Claude didn’t even know was coming.

“Then we can accept that we trust each other,” said Lorenz. “When the time comes, know that I can be relied upon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Claude smiled. “Get down there and dance. Let me sulk up here on my own.”

“Sulk? You? Ha!” Lorenz laughed. “Though I suppose Lysithea will be in want of a friend to speak with soon.”

“Go!” Claude shooed him.

The rest of the evening was spent in and out of waltzes and galliards, of pavanes and the laughter of simply moving. Lysithea was not a particularly accomplished dance partner, but between her, Hilda, Marianne, Annette, Mercedes, Leonie, Felix, Ashe, Ferdinand, Dorothea, and Ignatz-- well, Lorenz could manage. By the end of the night, if everyone hadn’t coupled up and headed for somewhere quieter in the monastery (the Goddess Tower was especially popular, apparently), they had gone to bed, for the most part, with precious little in the way of exception. Lorenz had considered a reprise to the mezzanine, but when he had finally looked back up, Claude was gone, and all of the wind in that sail deflated.

Lorenz meandered around the rose garden, which was lit by warm orange witch-light in frosted lanterns. Even with the snow having killed the last blossoms, there was still a certain quality of paradise to it, the blankets of pristine white over the pagoda and the crisp cleanness of the manicured hedges and bushes. He sat down to rest outside for a moment in thought; Lysithea, who he had considered himself something like the accompaniment of at that point in the ball, had departed with Cyril, probably to go to the library, if her earlier conversation with him was to be believed. Ignatz and Raphael and Leonie and Marianne had left together earlier, and Hilda had vanished early in the ball, laughing on the arm of some boy who Lorenz wasn’t familiar with. And Claude had disappeared too, leaving Lorenz alone in the rose garden to rest for a few moments. He was horribly sore from being on his feet all evening, and exhausted from dancing. The tipsiness of weak punch had soaked him in a slightly rosy haze, and the fatigue of an early morning had completely mopped the floor with him. Functionally, were it not for the biting cold, Lorenz could have fallen asleep right there on the pagoda bench.

He was stirred by Ignatz’s crunching footsteps on the snow as he approached.

“I was looking for you,” said Ignatz, sitting down. “I was going to wait until tomorrow after classes to tell you about this, but-- I deciphered the last letter.”

“Ignatz, I am exhausted beyond the point of having any capacity to think,” sighed Lorenz. “I am sure that it could wait until tomorrow. At this moment, all I could manage is a hot bath and a long night’s rest.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Ignatz hesitantly. “It mentions you.”

“By name? How confounding,” said Lorenz, with a dark hole of dread suddenly consuming his stomach from the inside.

“I wrote it down. Wait,” said Ignatz, pulling out a scrap of paper. “Save the Riegan products. Needed for Lorenz.” He tilted his head. “Do you have...any idea what that means?”

A thousand things flashed through Lorenz’s wine-addled mind. The major crest of Riegan. The timeline they had pieced together. Crest beasts. Needles, loud screams in the dark. The scars on his thighs. Cynthia von Ordelia’s voice. The one time he had met Godfrey von Riegan as a small child. The major crest of Riegan. Preserving salts. Parcels to the Empire. Carriage rides. Suddenly, every piece fell into place.

Lorenz staggered to his feet, and barely made it to the edge of the pagoda before his stomach completely emptied itself of all of its contents.


	13. Ch. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot has happened in my personal life, especially with regards to the pandemic, so although i know that i'm approaching the good stuff, and i have plans, certainly, i may be taking a longer break between the next few chapters. thank you for being understanding and as always thank you for reading!

_Lorenz perched himself on his parent’s huge bed. His mother was gone for the morning, off to make arrangements, write letters of cancellation and apology, to send for the local doctor. It was early fall, and seasonal illness had scorched its way through town, with precious little in the way of fatality, but a great deal in the way of inconveniences and fatigue. His father had caught ill, and Lorenz had been instructed by his mother to keep him company._

_“Daddy,” he said, cross legged in his pajamas, barely a few weeks over six, his violet hair loose, “are you bored?”_

_“I am not,” said his father, propped upright against pillows, with his hair slightly tangled, face red with fever. “I’m trying to stay awake.”_

_“Why?” said Lorenz, scowling._

_“So that when your mother comes back, I can talk to her.” He sighed. “Lorenz, can you hand me my reading glasses and bring me the book beside the window?”_

_“Yeah,” said Lorenz, swinging his legs back over and grabbing them, then handing them to his father, whose spindly hands were slightly chapped. He waited a few minutes while his father read, watching him. “I’m bored.”_

_“Are you?” asked his father. “I have an idea. You’ve been learning to read, haven’t you?”_

_“Yes,” said Lorenz proudly, “and I’m very good at it.”_

_“And you know all of your letters and sounds?” said his father._

_“Mhm,” said Lorenz._

_“Can you read to me?” said his father. “Your mama said to keep me company, and I think you would far prefer to read out loud to me than just sit here.”_

_Lorenz’s eyes lit up in excitement. “Yes!” He beamed proudly. “Can I pick the book?”_

_“Any book you please.” Lorenz bolted off the bed, to the library, where the huge collection of books was housed, including the ones he favored, easy ones for children and stories and myths. He snatched the well-worn leather covered one which he treasured off of the low shelf where his mother had moved his books, and dashed back, his bare little feet pounding on the stone as he leaped back up onto the bed._

_“Which book?” asked his father._

_“The Peachpit Princess,” said Lorenz, holding it up. “It’s my favorite. It has knights and princesses and magic and…” He flipped through the page and held up a picture of the titular princess in a great orange and pink dress. “The pictures are very nice. I’ll start on the first page, though, ‘cause that’s the best part.” His father smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “In a faraway kingdom, there was once a queen and a king.”_

~<>~

Lorenz laid despondently on his bed. It was past noon. He did not care, at all, actually. He hadn’t left his room in three days. Not since he had realized that the blood running in his veins was that of a man his father had murdered. He hadn’t slept. He’d barely eaten, and what he had eaten, his stomach had immediately purged. He had been wearing his pajamas for two days, since after the ball he had simply laid on his bed in shock. He hadn’t even cried. All he felt was sick.

He had Godfrey von Riegan’s blood in his veins. Oh, Lorenz had known, he had known for years, that he wasn’t alone. But he had, for so long, tried to find solace in some belief that at least he was suffering in someone else’s stead. That the survival of someone else was predicated on his suffering. But to know now that someone was dead, and had died partially for his sake-- that was what made him sick. He had met Godfrey von Riegan one time, as a small child. Just once. He barely even remembered him at all. But he was dead-- or partly dead, thought Lorenz with a twist in his stomach. His blood was alive and well, and Lorenz could bleed to prove it.

A sharp rap on his door barely broke through his haze.

“Come in,” he managed, sitting upright.

Lysithea shoved her way in, and dropped papers onto his desk. “Get up.” She flopped onto his chair. “You missed two days of class so far. Why?”

Lorenz rolled over.

“You can’t ignore me, you know,” she fumed, standing up and walking to the bed. “You have to tell me what’s wrong. You promised me you would.”

That was right. He’d never had any intention of keeping it, of course-- deceptive, snakey, despicable, and underhanded, he thought glumly-- but he had promised it.

“I’ll mix all your loose leaf teas together in one big canister and shake it up and drop it in the baths, then,” said Lysithea. “That’s all I came here for. To ask permission.”

“If you so much as consider such a despicable deed, I will never forgive you,” said Lorenz, sitting upright.

“Oh goddess, you look like shit.” She scowled at him. “You really need to brush...everything.”

“You are such an insolent, inconsiderate--”

“Then tell me what’s wrong!” Lysithea pursed her lips, her rock hard rose quartz eyes staring at him very deliberately. “You tell me what’s wrong and maybe I’ll have to start being nice.”

“Lysithea, I cannot tell you.” He stared down at his lap.

“Are you dying or something?” She wrinkled her nose. “Because I thought you could tell me anything.”

“I think it is more important to me that I protect you, than it is that I be honest with you.”

“Bullshit!” Lysithea said, fuming. “I’m not going to let you use that as an excuse. You’re gonna tell me what’s wrong, and you’re going to tell me right now. I’m not some sheltered little lady who you have to take care of. I’m capable of handling anything.”

“Lysithea, please believe me when I say that this knowledge would hurt you.”

“No.” She sat on the ledge of the windowsill, swinging her legs as she picked up one of his trinkets. “I’m not going to leave until you tell me.”

“Then you shall stay in my room forever while I sulk.” Lorenz glared at her.

“Fine.” She picked up two of his tins of tea, shaking each of them close to her ear. “How many cups worth is in this one? I’d say...five pots? Oh, what a nice blend it must be for you to have used so much of it.”

“Alright!” Lorenz caved. “Then I’ll tell you.”

“I didn’t think that would work,” she said, putting down the tin. “Okay. What’s up?”

“I…” He took a deep breath, and paused. “Lysithea, I promised you that I wouldn’t involve you in any of my more dubious adventures.”

“And I told you you’re an idiot who would probably die without my help and it looks like I’m right.” She crossed her arms. “You haven’t taken care of yourself, either. When was the last time you ate?”

“That’s hardly relevant to the matter at hand.”

“Then tell me what is.”

“Push up your sleeves,” Lorenz said, doing the same, exposing the pinprick scars that both of them bore from crest experimentation all those years ago.

“Okay.” Lysithea said, pushing up her uniform jacket sleeves. “Why?”

“When we got these scars, and our second crests, it hurt the both of us deeper than any words could express.” Lorenz hesitated. “It did, and there is little sense in denying it.”

“That’s why you should take care of yourself,” Lysithea said.

“Well, yes,” said Lorenz, “but where did the second crests come from?” Lorenz frantically pushed back the white strands of hair that had fallen into his face. “Lysithea, they transfused other people’s blood into us. I don’t know the extent of it, I think it cannot be said for certain by one so uneducated in the ways of alchemy and medicine alike. But I can tell you where my second crest came from now.”

“Probably a crest relic, or at least that’s my guess.” Lysithea peered at him. “Is there...something horrible?”

“Second crests come from other people’s blood, Lysithea.” He had lost some of his composure and polish, but could he truly be expected to maintain it? “Godfrey von Riegan’s blood runs through my veins.”

“You don’t know that.” Lysithea pursed her lips.

“I do.” Lorenz rose to his feet, feeling like he was dragging his sad little sack of bones upright, then shuffling to the desk. “Folders of letters as proof.”

“You can’t be serious.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I can believe it, because...then, where did my crest come from? I don’t think there’s any major crests of Gloucester around. It’s… it’s impossible.”

“My grandfather.” He pursed his lips. “I already thought about that. He died nine years ago.”

“That’s long before any of this happened,” said Lysithea hesitantly. “Three years.”

“But there’s no other way they could have obtained a major crest of Gloucester.” Lorenz shook his head.

“You’re serious about all of this?” Lysithea stared at him, quartz softening to rose petals. “This is all...real?”

“It is.” Lorenz shook his head. “I do not wish to believe it either, Lysithea.”

“This all seems too far fetched for me.” Lysithea sat down. “It does. But…” She hesitated. “You have the letters to prove it?”

“I do.” Lorenz handed her the folders. She briefly skimmed them, the notes and decryptions, in studious, faithful silence over the minutes, then handed it back to him.

“You really weren’t messing around.” She thwapped him with one of the letters and handed it back. “Well, so you have Godfrey von Riegan’s blood. What now?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean what now.” Lysithea flipped her hair. “You can’t change this any more than I could. So you have to figure out what you’re going to do now that you know. Also, how did you even get all of these letters?”

“Ignatz has familial connections in private postal services and when we visited Gloucester for the Acheron incident, I may have pilfered a few from my father.”

“That sounds...highly illegal.” Lysithea raised an eyebrow. “Well… Here’s the thing. This is all information that you have, that you can use. So you need to decide how. Why were you investigating?”

“I suspected my father was involved in the death of Godfrey von Riegan and the Kirstens. The truth of the matter ran far deeper than I ever could have predicted that it would, and I suspect it runs even deeper still.”

“Why were you so invested in whether or not your dad was responsible for that? I mean, it’s not like there’s a single lord in the Alliance who doesn’t have at least a little blood on their hands.”

“That’s terribly cynical, Lysithea.”

“But I’m not wrong,” she bristled.

“I supposed that perhaps I would use it to claim his position of power as my own. To publicize the knowledge would be to doom him and his leadership forever, and the von Riegans would never forgive him.”

“So you were going to usurp him? Lorenz,” said Lysithea, clicking her tongue. “The audacity.”

“Outline for me the other options I have available to me, knowing what we know of Edelgard, and now the corruption steeped into the very fiber of the Alliance and Empire. In fact, I’m sure it goes down all the way to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus as well.”

Lysithea paused. “Well, ethically speaking, you don’t, and that’s your big problem. You always want to do the right thing.” She leaned back. “Me, I want to stay home.”

“Do you not care in the least where your second crest came from?” said Lorenz, brow furrowed. “Lysithea, I have been in agony over the last few days on the subject matter. To think I-- it is unspeakable.”

“I care,” said Lysithea. “It’s just… There’s nothing I can do about it, and it’s not quite the same, I think, for me. It’s not like your grandfather was murdered on my behalf or something.”

To Lorenz, that was little reassurance. But he pondered the matter. Lysithea had always seemed to look forward far better than he had ever managed to do. Lorenz was always looking back and behind and picking apart the past, and it was a hard habit to break.

“Fair,” said Lorenz. “I must confess that it is fair, to not be as shaken on the matter. This is staggering to me, all of it, but...I suppose it is not as grisly for you.”

“Nope,” said Lysithea, ribbing his arm. “It’s gross, for sure, and horrifying, and terrible, but not too much worse than everything else.” She leaned back onto the palms of her hands, slumping her shoulders. “You have to eat sometime.”

“I don’t think I can.” He sighed.

“Not a good excuse. We’re going to raid the pantries, I’m going to make some tea, and you’re going to eat.” Lysithea stood with her arms crossed. “You don’t have a choice. I’ll stand outside, and you’re getting dressed, and if you’re not ready in five minutes, then I’ll start with the bergamot blend.”

“Lysithea--”

“Don’t you dare _Lysithea_ me.” She glared at him, snatching one of the canisters off of the shelf and opening the door. “I’m waiting.” She slammed it behind her.

It was just like her-- not to meddle, really, that was not ordinary for her. She wasn’t the type. But it was like her to be so pushy about it, to be meticulous and vigilant about care. He knew Lysithea alone was responsible for herself, he had heard her say it, and as cynical as he was about her nutritional intake on a diet of only sugar, and her encouraging him to do the same, even if it was harsh, was her way of showing care. He had done the same for her in his endless doting. It was just the way they cared for one another. His questions and sheltering and careful compassion, and her pushing, shoving criticism. She-- no, her sister, really, had said it one time, a long time ago-- that Lorenz was their family. He thought for a brief moment of Cynthia, the scarce details he remembered. A singing voice. Vibrant orange hair. An unbreakable amount of courage and spirit. And perhaps Lysithea had been too young at the time to be like her, or perhaps they were, fundamentally, very different, but he could see some of that in her. She was rather like her sister, he thought sadly as he changed from his pajamas into a non-uniform shirt that was still sufficiently formal nonetheless, and tucked a silk rose into his pocket. She was.

~<>~

The winter months passed in a haze. Lorenz mournfully disbanded the investigative party after the revelation of the truth. He had precious little heart left in him to take any more of it, and eventually, when met with only sad silence from Marianne, she coaxed some of the truth out of him, and she had pieced together much of the remainder. Marianne was like that, thought Lorenz-- quick to think, slow to act, and that was a thing he could respect. Besides, he could trust her with secrets. Marianne had her own, and he had little interest in wrenching them out of her through some tear stained confessionals.

When their teacher’s hair changed, and Edelgard vanished, he and Lysithea burnt midnight oil in conversation, to come to a simple conclusion: they would be wary, and that whatever this was, could not be unrelated. He also knew that Lysithea wouldn’t say a word to Claude-- that would require her to divulge her own secret, and she wouldn’t do such a thing. He himself thought that Claude was perceptive enough to piece bits and pieces of Edelgard’s configurations and machinations together, without his aide, and he had no interest in admitting that she had summoned him months ago without Claude being informed. There was no wiggle room in that regard.

For the most part, the end of the school year proceeded as was expected. Due diligence to studying and exams became the premier social event, and the weekend battles grew into tedium rather than the thrill of their first months. The professor, at last, coaxed Cyril into the classroom beside them, to the delight of most of his new classmates, but especially Lysithea. Even Lorenz could see the light at the end of the academic year’s tunnel, a future where he was no longer in the topsy turvy world of Garreg Mach monastery, where nobody could be trusted and his deepest secret was his greatest strength and where old alliances were turned on their heads. He was almost anticipating a return to the long dinner table with just his father. Almost.

The Lone Moon settled in quietly-- so quietly that the disappearance of Edelgard was little more than a hush over the monastery, a blanket of soon-to-melt snow that muffled any other conversation. When news reached the monastery’s ears that she had proclaimed herself emperor, it was barely alarming. However, in the week to follow where news came that she was amassing a force to march on Garreg Mach-- well, that was more alarming. There was barely time to evacuate, and even as their professor frantically drilled them, he couldn’t help but feel a shameful, sickening guilt. Perhaps he could not have stopped Edelgard. Certainly, he could not have talked her down; she seemed very decisive. However, he could have issued a private warning to the professor or Claude, and he had chosen not to.

When the Black Eagles vanished, he knew the time was near. Even Ferdinand had quietly disappeared, and Lorenz was bracing himself to see his friend by her side-- and could he really say that he did not sympathize with Edelgard, that he didn’t feel for her cause and pain, or understand what she was trying to build? He could not truly bring himself to scorn her any longer. There was no world in which he could fault her for her disillusionment with the church and the crest system. But he could fault her for launching an assault on not just the monastery, but the entire continent to boot, and unsurprised though he was, he still was caught off his guard. There had been no way to prepare for it so soon, and such an undertaking must have taken great preparation.

Three days after the disappearance of the Black Eagle’s premier students, the distant lights of the imperial soldier’s camps were spotted over the walls. It would be the next day, then, thought Lorenz. This would be a real battle, the kind he had never before seen, the kind of sagas and epics, the kind that meant students were allowed to leave if they so chose. He was beginning to understand why it was a curse to live in interesting times.

Spread blankets and mattresses carpeted the reception hall that night. It almost would have felt like a party were it not for the hush over the remaining students who lingered. Lorenz didn’t know what had compelled him to stay, he thought, staring up at the vaulted ceilings. Surely his father was penning a letter to the emperor herself that very moment, to make amends between territories and swear fealty and promise he’d be a good crusher of rebellions. His father was no warrior; that meant that he had every intention of enlisting his son’s force on the matter. He didn’t like the sound of that, not at all, he thought, drifting off to sleep on the cold, hard marble floor, shivering in the cold of early spring that a blanket couldn’t spare him from. Who would be on the other side of his lance tomorrow? In a month? In a year? He couldn’t say.

He awoke to the ring of one of the bells of the cathedral. Other students startled awake alongside him, confused and bleary eyed, while a few of the knights pushed open the doors.

“Alright, everyone. This is your last chance to go home.” Thunderbrand Catherine stood in the doorway, Shamir behind her. “It’s now or never. The imperial soldiers are outside our walls. You either fight with your professors and I, or you leave. We don’t have any room for tag-a-longs.”

Nobody moved. Claude cleared his throat after a few minutes, sitting cross legged on his mattress.

“Then armor up.” Shamir said, turning around and walking back towards the cathedral. The door closed, and Marianne started sobbing.

“Hey, hey,” said Leonie, kneeling down beside her, and Lorenz felt entirely distant as he stood and headed to the knight’s hall to get his armor, the uniform standard of dark knights, which he had been so proud to pass the examination of all those months ago. Had he known then that this would be why he put on his armor?

He shoved through the weapons, to the back sealed chest where the handful of crest weapons in custody of students were. It was unassuming for something containing such rare treasures, simple polished cedar, and with a click of the key he had been given, Lorenz opened the chest. He drew Thyrsus into his hand.

He’d held it a few times before. The professor had insisted he practice with it a handful of times, and in battle, Thyrsus wielded a few unique attributes. It increased his power, amplifying it like a magnifying glass did sunlight, and from further away, he could destroy foes. Black magic had a nasty habit of slowly gnarling, hardening, and twisting the flesh of its users, and many older magicians and mages had aching hands like tree roots-- and Thyrsus protected against such distortions of the body. His father had used it for years when he was younger and more involved in magic, and Lorenz had once been proud to wield it, even if it came with the ache of his father’s backhanded and conditional approval.

Lorenz walked back towards the reception hall, where Lysithea was brushing out her hair and had already put on the violet robes of a mage. “You look fearsome,” he said, with a curt nod.

“You don’t need to patronise me,” said Lysithea. “I’m four eleven. The only thing I’m scaring is a housecat.”

“I was rather genuine upon saying it,” said Lorenz. “You look every bit a fierce young mage. The Empire ought to be shaking in their boots at the thought of being on your bad side.”

“I am the best in our year,” she admitted. “Shouldn’t you be in the stable getting your horse ready?”

“I fear my poor Edgar shall have to be patient, for I have another matter to attend to before I mount up.”

“Which would be?” Lysithea pocketed the brush and reached for a ribbon to tie it up and out of her face.

“I have two matters of concern. I would ask that you promise me that you and I shall remain allied even after the end of our academic careers, and that we keep in contact.”

“Alright,” said Lysithea. “As long as you write me, too. What’s the second thing?”

Lorenz pulled Thyrsus off his back, and Lysithea’s eyes grew wide.

“I can’t accept this, Lorenz. Then...everyone would know about--”

“It’s alright.” Lorenz smiled. “If they would care to say anything on that matter, then they ought to take such complaints up with me.”

“Why?” Lysithea gently took it from his outstretched hand, and he could almost feel its response to her thrum with electricity-- a major crest, he thought. Ah.

“You see, Thyrsus helps prevent the damage of dark magic on the body.” He watched as she waved it about. “I fear you push yourself quite often, and I should hate to see the hands of a fifteen year old girl gnarled and painful like those of an old man. You’re too young for such pain, Lysithea.”

“And what about you?” She peered at him suspiciously.

“I am more than capable with the lance,” he said. “I can defend myself in other ways. You, however, are far more limited.”

“So you’re saying...I can use Thyrsus in your place.”

“I am. But I ought to set out. They will be close at any moment. The professor asked us to meet at the field east of the creek, did she not?”

“She did!” Lysithea nudged his arm. “Can I raise a third order of business?”

“You may,” said Lorenz.

“If either of us dies out there, this is goodbye.” She hesitantly hugged him, trying to navigate around his armor, and Lorenz returned the embrace. “Take care of yourself.”

“And to you the same.” He smoothed her white hair down her back. “You are the very nearest thing to a sister that I have ever known, and I feel that it is only right that I say so.”

“It’s just like you to wait till we’re on the verge of battle to say something so dramatic,” said Lysithea, scoffing as they separated. “You go give them hell!”

“I shall!” Lorenz beamed at her, and began the long walk to the stables.

Lorenz was half done grooming Edgar when he heard the thundering boom of the first of the powder kegs being hurled.

He finished armoring his horse, and rode out-- only to find that the carnage had completely surrounded the monastery. Lorenz had been in the heat of battle dozens of times in his life, but never in such sheer volumes of bodies. The Imperial soldiers were relentless, in the thousands, he thought to himself. He had never seen a field on this scale before. The smell of blood was as dense as salt in the ocean, pungent and heavy, and cutting through it was the sharp smell of vinegary dark magic. Smoke rose from the walls of the monastery, and bodies were beginning to heap-- oh Goddess, he recognized a few. Hadn’t that girl cleaved in two been a constant help in the dining hall? Or that sharper boy, pierced through with the lance, all bloodied, he was always in the stables and quick with a joke. Lorenz felt like vomiting. They were...they were truly here. It wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t the classroom anymore. It was smoke and death and a blood-soaked soil, and in the middle o f it all, he felt deep-seated guilt.

Lorenz didn’t have to look long to find Claude. Shimmering above them all, on his wyvern, bow out, he was like a jewel in the morning blue sky. Hilda stood below him, in a grisly display of violence with her axe, obliterating anyone within her radius. And, Lorenz inspected the battlefield from the upper platforms of the monastery. The Imperial soldiers had brought ballistas.

Bernadetta, the best shot in their year, was at one of them. And she was preparing it to fire. Lorenz had never wanted to kill a soul, let alone one as gentle as her. But that ballista was designed for taking down wyverns and pegasi. The calculations flashed through his mind. It was Claude’s life, and the future of the Alliance, and all of the hopes he’d had for the future-- or it was Bernadetta’s. Lorenz had never sworn not to spill blood. Would it be such a stretch to spill the blood of someone he knew and admired, at times?

Hooves pounded against the ground as Lorenz rode, mind set. He raised his lance. He poised to round the edge of the ballista. And, not twenty, not thirty feet away, he realized he had hesitated for too long. He wouldn’t strike the blow in time. Bernadetta, shaky handed and terrified, had already positioned it to strike and fire.

Lorenz swerved, and rode twenty feet from the front of the ballista as Bernadetta fired towards Claude. He couldn’t stop Bernadetta, he thought. But he could stop the bolt, and buy Claude another few minutes of safety.

What had Edelgard called him once? The heir to nothing but his own suffering? Oh, he had risen to the challenge for a short while, but if this was it, then this was it. He could give the Alliance ten thousand futures in this moment, and he resigned himself as he heard the pop of release, and within milliseconds, the bolt punched through Lorenz’s armor.

The feeling was electric, like a buzz radiating up from his left shoulder, then, it burnt like fire, then like ice, and he crumpled off of his horse, the four pound ballista bolt lodged what felt like most of the way through his left shoulder, clutching at it. That...was a lot of blood. He could smell it. His own blood.

Godfrey von Riegan’s blood.

He could hear Marianne scream, before his vision started to blur, not yet darkening, but fuzzy.

“Marianne,” he mustered, slurring as he tried to turn to look for a source of her voice, but failed in the wash of sky blue.

“Stay down,” she ordered. She sounded a thousand miles away, and he reached up a hand, searching for hers.

“Marianne,” he slurred again. “Is Claude safe?”

“He’s alright,” she said, pinning him down with an elbow. “I’m going to take the bolt out and heal it shut. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“On four.”

“I thought it was three?”

“One, two, three--” He could feel her weight press down slightly on him, no matter how willowy a woman she was, and the moment _four_ slipped out, with a firm yank, she pulled out the bolt.

Lorenz was not conscious for a second longer, the pain, shock, and blood loss enough. He wasn’t even awake for an instant of Marianne’s healing might-- the world was a fade of black and the smell of vinegar and smoke.


	14. Ch. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're fine, everybody! woohoo! wear your masks and be safe, i was incredibly lucky but a lot of people are not. don't get complacent.  
> also this chapter is a doozy and editing it was rough lol, but i hope the wait has paid off!

_“Lorrie, dear,” said his mother, brushing out his hair with the coarse bristled brush, “is that what you’re wearing for the portrait?”_

_“I wanted to match you,” said Lorenz, pointedly holding up his violet bangs. “So that the portrait looks pretty.”_

_“How thoughtful,” said his mother, “but your father declined to join our fun on that one. He says he doesn’t look as nice in red as we do.”_

_“Well, then he doesn’t have to. I still want to match.” Lorenz handed her the hair tie. “I did your pearl pins earlier and there were a few left, can you put them in my braid?”_

_“That would be lovely,” she said. “You really are lucky you have your father’s hair. Straight as a board, thick and such a wonderful color. Not like mine.”_

_“You have pretty hair,” said Lorenz, sitting still at the back of the chair. “It’s so shiny and curly.”_

_“And unmanageable,” she said with a smile. “You are lucky you will never have to brush hair so curly. There. All done.”_

_“I’m heading downstairs, then,” said Lorenz, bolting out of the chair and tugging on his shoes._

_“Ah! No,” she said. “Before you go, this goes in your jacket pocket.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silk red rose. “See? Don’t you look handsome?”_

_“Mom,” said Lorenz, rolling his eyes as he reached for the pin to stick it in place, “I can do it myself.”_

_“I just want to make sure it looks right. See?” She backed away, admiring her handiwork. “Now we can go downstairs. Don’t forget,” she called as Lorenz bolted, “this is going to be on the mantle forever!”_

~<>~

Lorenz woke up in his own bed. Today was the tenth of the Great Tree Moon. Gingerly, he reached up to the wound on his shoulder, and flinched at the tremulous touch of his own hand. He could barely move his left arm, and Marianne had explicitly instructed him a week ago that he was to keep it in a sling. He sat upright in bed, stretching his right shoulder and rolling inelegantly out of bed, then dressed in...lilac, for today-- that was a jacket he could get around the sling.

His father had arrived home from Derdriu late the night prior. It was unlikely that he would be expected to attend a formal breakfast, but morning tea at the very least would be standard, considering all things. He hadn’t seen his father in almost a year now, and surely they would be able to hold a conversation, even if his feelings towards him were growing increasingly sour. With some care to balancing himself, Lorenz walked down the stairs. The loss of his left arm’s range of motion had altered his center of gravity, and he had to be vigilant. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, shoes clicking on the white marble floor with the final step, and looked up at the portrait that hung over the landing of the stairwell, a canvas so large he probably could have laid down on it.

It was their family. His mother, with her elegant, softened face, her sharp dark violet eyes, her wavy hair and the ruby and pearl jewelry that still sat untouched in his father’s suite. His father, just before his hair started graying, with long, loose, pin straight lavender hair and piercing, deep set blue eyes that stared out at the beholder through thin glasses, in his dark, conservative attire. And, with a hand on his seated mother’s shoulder, there was Lorenz. The portrait had been painted when he was twelve, and it showed. He could hear the sound of his voice cracking just by looking at it. He still had baby cheeks, he thought, when this was painted. And, he had, at the time, still had violet hair.

The problem was that he no longer had violet hair in the portrait. It was white. Pearly, beautiful, yes, with a purple sheen to it. But it had been painted over, and the painting that proved that he was someone before this, the brilliant reminder of his personhood from another life, the portrait that he could uphold as evidence that he was his mother’s son-- was spoiled.

He’d seen it three days ago when he had returned from Garreg Mach, and even now, he was still angry about it. Something in him wanted to rip it apart, to tear it to shreds. Perhaps it was the way the portrait of him smiled out at the viewer, with round cheeks and a naive smile and his mother’s eyes and the pearl pins she’d put there that day-- with the white hair like the ultimate insult. Or perhaps it was that he was bitterly angry that a time so happy had only by a few months preceded such radical change in all of their lives. Whatever the case was, he hated it now. And his father had changed it sometime in the year of Lorenz’s absence.

He yanked himself from his trance of seething and headed to the kitchen to snag an apple from the dry cellar, then up into the informal back parlor, where he used to read and study in his leisure time. It overlooked the gardens, but the furniture was more worn by comfort and use than that of the receiving parlor for guests. He chomped into the apple, leaning against the window in thought. How would he approach his father? There were ten thousand things that had changed since they had last seen one another, and though Lorenz could not imagine a world where he could confront his father directly, he also could see no future where he would be able to contain his slow, broiling anger. He took another crisp bite of the apple, standing with his back to the glass, glancing around the room.

So many memories lived here. He and his parents had built a blanket fort in that corner when he was very small. His mother and her friends and their children had taken summer lunches on that lawn, behind the estate. His father had helped teach him to read on that sofa. Perhaps he was too overwhelmed by the nostalgia of being home, he thought wistfully, reaching in his pocket to page through his small notebook, where he kept meandering scrawls and thoughts in a less organized fashion than his journal was. Last night, he had written down some complaints on the management of the estate while he was away and that it seemed his father had cut funding to the surrounding villages along the path, but he hadn’t finished that thought. Balanced in his left hand while he crunched at the apple, Lorenz paged through older notes pensively, trying to reoccupy his head with thoughts other than sulking around his large, empty manor while nursing his poor shoulder.

Lorenz barely noticed when the back parlor door clicked open and his father walked in.

He was in his pajamas, thought Lorenz keenly, since now he knew he hadn’t misjudged the situation’s formality in any way. The dark robe over his dressing pants even looked elegant on the Count, who towered almost as high as Lorenz himself did, and his full head of lavender hair, shot with streaks of grey, was tied low on his neck. He was wearing his glasses over blue eyes, and the wrinkles on his forehead had barely deepened since Lorenz saw him last. He was still an elegant, handsome man in the shadow of middle age, and although his mother may have joked a few times recently that her son took after her, side by side, they were certainly father and son.

“It’s good to see you home,” said his father, approaching him and offering out an arm for an embrace, which Lorenz took. His father was not consistent with affection, but he had to admit, when Lorenz received it, he was grateful. The embrace was warm, as warm as a memory from his childhood, and even mindful of his shoulder, Lorenz couldn’t help but feel a little bit of his malice melt away.

“I return the sentiment,” said Lorenz, sitting down in one of the parlor chairs and hiding his notebook in his pocket. “How was Derdriu?”

“The news from the Empire has shaken the Round Table,” said the Count, “but I think that the opportunity outweighs the momentary panic. We are living in extraordinary times, after all.” That gave Lorenz some pause, hesitant and cautious.

“I fail to see why this was shocking,” said Lorenz cautiously. “Has not the Empire long turned its gaze to reclaiming the continent?”

“It has,” said his father warily. “But that is of little consequence now. How are you? It has been quite a while since I saw you. Your hair is quite a dramatic change. Are you well? And of your shoulder-- what a story I am sure that is!”

“It...is,” said Lorenz hesitantly. “I have kept my hair short for nearly a year now. I quite nearly forgot that it would still surprise you.” He cleared his throat. “The imperial invasion was quite bloody. Battlefield injuries happen.”

“I see,” said his father, sitting down in the armchair across from him. “Your exams, how did they proceed?”

“I received the second highest marks in my class.” Lorenz cleared his throat.

“Second? To whom?” The count tilted his head, and Lorenz caught a dangerous flash in his eyes.

“Lysithea von Ordelia.” He bit into his apple again, trying to feign nonchalance.

“A young prodigy, she is, isn’t she? That is to be expected, of course,” said the count. “The both of you, shining portraits of excellence.”

Lorenz pursed his lips. “On that matter, by the way, I found that the monastery was quite agreeable for my health. It must be the mountain air.”

“It must be,” agreed his father. “I have a day to prepare for, and as you know, we do have dinner guests tonight--”

“We do?” Lorenz raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I thought you were informed,” said his father. “Over dinner, one of the minor lords of the Empire and his wife are here for business inquiries.”

Business. Sure. Lorenz had a difficult time swallowing that one.

“I shall see you over morning tea, then.” Lorenz bit his tongue, the warmth having faded from their initial reunion.

“And you shall,” said his father, rising and heading for the door. “I simply wanted to greet you more informally than tea would permit. I am glad you’re home. The manor has been empty.” And, with a click of the knob, his father was gone.

Lorenz let out a sigh and leaned back. He forgot how his father put his every nerve on end, at times for reasons even he couldn’t fully grasp. He quietly tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, trying not to disturb the pristine silence of the manor, which he was still horribly unaccustomed to after the constant thrum of the monastery, and left the apple core in the bin. Peeking out the window at the gardens, he couldn’t help but feel a little mournful of his mother and her roses and the letters he would only be able to reread now that his correspondence was under the watchful gaze of Matthias Simon Gloucester.

Maybe he wanted to go back to the monastery again, after all.

That was right. It was no longer an option-- much of it had collapsed to the ground, demolished and burnt, and their teacher with it. He could bear it, of course-- Lorenz was no child, and he was accustomed in a limited sense to loss. Nonetheless, it was grievous, and he had remembered the somber parting at the gates of Garreg Mach from his classmates.

He walked back upstairs to his bedroom, still thinking, but now thinking of the goodbyes he’d shared. Claude had mentioned that he wouldn’t always be available to write letters, but he’d try-- another bright candle of suspicion illuminated in Lorenz’s mind-- but he had graciously informed him that contact could be maintained in event of timely emergency. Whatever that meant. And-- Claude had thanked him, in the roundabout way that Claude did, for taking the bolt for him. Lorenz had been half sedated on pain medication to ease the toll healing took on the body at the time, so it had barely pieced together in his mind as gratitude, but after a week of sobriety, he was more confident in what Claude had meant. And that was, to Lorenz, some comfort.

His personal desk was flooded with the papers he’d dragged back from Garreg Mach. A great deal of it was studying material or old homework, but buried beneath it all was the letters from his mother. He could not keep them in plain sight. He would have to devise a way to conceal them-- perhaps false pockets in books would work. For now, he buried them in a drawer and fished for the suggested list of reading material that Lysithea had thrown at him-- something about building better study habits and experimenting in more dynamic forms of magic. He would have to hunt for all of these books, he thought with a groan, setting the sheet aside and copying the list into his notebook.

And, before he knew it-- the ten o’clock bell of the village cathedral was ringing outside his window. That meant it was time for tea.

Teatime was a ritual long established in the Gloucester family. Back when Lorenz was a little boy, before his aunt and mother had left, and his grandfather had died, it was the only time in the day that the entire family was guaranteed to spend together, and it was long-established enough that his grandfather said it was the same as when he had been Lorenz’s age. It was a ritual he’d even tried to carry with him to Garreg Mach, although he eventually slipped out of the habit when too many weekends and lessons occupied his time. It was almost a little whimsical, thought Lorenz-- to dwell so on the concept that an hour could be set aside in midmorning for tea, conversation, and the ritual formality that his father had rigidly instilled in him. But it was very, very real, not simply some hypothetical. Lorenz had spent five years taking tea every morning, alone with his father and nobody else, though his aunt Andrea occasionally visited on holiday. That was how devoted to the practice they were. Teatime was at ten, in the formal dining room, rigorously ritualistic, and Lorenz would be on time.

The formal dining room of the Gloucester manor was not large. In fact, although the Gloucester manor was in its own way imposing, it was not large. It was not very old, nor was it very large, and had been constructed only about one hundred and fifty years before Lorenz was born. His great, great grandfather had used the family wealth to tear down the old estate and build a larger manor, a symbol of their rising status, and though he hadn’t been able to build one big enough to satiate Matthias Simon Gloucester or rival the Riegan manor in Derdriu, it was still nearly the same size, allegedly, as that of the Edmund family. The dining room was draped in rich maroons and violets, and the wood table was stained a deep rich brown. Chairs upholstered in clean damask sat, six on each side of the table, then two at each end, and the light of midmorning poured through huge vista windows that overlooked the main exterior yard. Lorenz pushed open the dark oak door.

His father was already there. He didn’t sit at the head of the table; he never had done so for tea time, it was mostly only for formal dinners with guests that he ever did. The tea was already out at the table, and his father wore a smokey grey set, his hair pinned back into a low bun, his reading glasses on the table as he stared out the window.

For a moment, Lorenz almost pitied him. He had been here, alone, hadn’t he? For that entire year, alone, with nothing but an empty house.

Then his father started speaking, and the softness in Lorenz’s heart melted away like chocolate around a brick.

“You have not, in all of this time, forgotten tea time, I see,” said the Count, and Lorenz felt as if he had bit a lemon, though he couldn’t let his face show it. “How is your mother?”

The question was a trap, and Lorenz knew it the moment it left his father’s mouth. “I have no way of knowing such things,” he said patiently, sitting down across from his father and pouring himself tea.

“I would have thought that in my absence, you may have tried to contact her.” He lifted the teacup to his thin lips, and Lorenz caught a flash in his blue eyes. “I misjudged you.”

It was meant as praise, Lorenz realized, but it was the sort of slap to the face that put him off of speaking to his father in any circumstance outside of requirement. “I had no means to find her channels of address.” He sipped his tea.

“She is not hard to find,” said the count. “Her family is very prominent in Dagda, and remains so. I would have supposed you knew.”

Lorenz didn’t. He barely knew a thing about his mother’s past. She had vanished into thin air, like a strange dream, before he was old enough to truly process a thing about her. “You were mistaken.”

“It is for the best.” His father pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning on his elbow. “Your mother was both cunning and ambitious. She was something of a threat, in her own way.” Lorenz was surprised he would speak ill of her, then it settled again in his mind that his father was a bitter man. His mother, were she to be cunning and ambitious and a _threat_ , would not have written a dozen kind and loving letters to her only son a continent away, would she?

Would she?

“Did she know about Godfrey von Riegan?” Lorenz did not bite his tongue. He would not restrain himself or leash himself. His father was to know that his son that he had raised to replace him, to rise above him, knew his sins.

“What of him?” His father coolly held the teacup. Too coolly. Lorenz could see the crack here. His father had never been a good liar.

“The circumstances of his death, and your involvement thereof.”

“If you think it is my involvement alone, you are sorely mistaken.” His father took a sip of tea. “Of course your mother knew. She is many things, but stupid is not among them.”

“I ask that you do not take such tones when speaking of her,” said Lorenz, a sharp pang to his voice as his eyes flashed.

“If I have hit a nerve, then I apologize for your reaction.” That was not an apology, and Lorenz knew it. “Your mother married me and had you for political convenience and left when it was no longer convenient. My opinion of her is thus soured, knowing how she had used the both of us to her advantage.”

“You truly believe such things,” said Lorenz with a sneer. “My mother is twice the person you’ve ever been.”

“Ah, so now nostalgia has clouded what remained of your judgement. Think with your mind, Lorenz. Your mother abandoned us.”

“You expect me to believe your half truths?” Lorenz, were he not half bandaged in a sling in the middle of teatime with the only member of his family on the continent, would have thrown a chair at him. “I am not a child to be manipulated by you any longer. Lest you forget, I am eighteen years old. I may be your heir, and I may be your legitimate flesh and blood, but I consider it a shame that some would see me as your son.”

“And the Riegans and your mother an ocean away will embrace your reign with open arms,” said his father, a sarcastic half question. “Come to your senses.”

“I have.” Lorenz could feel a boiling rage rising up in him. “To you I am nothing more than a tool to be used against those who you dislike. My personhood was revoked the moment you realized there was a price on my blood. I am no more your son than this _table_ is your son. And you know it as well as I do.”

“Do I?” His father couldn’t keep the cool facade forever, and Lorenz could tell it was breaking. “Tell me, how much do you really know? One ought not beat around the bush, then, hm?”

“I know everything,” said Lorenz. “I know that you killed Godfrey von Riegan, or rather, hired and collaborated with those who did. I know that you orchestrated it so that I may bear his blood and his crest. I know that this plan was in the making for months, and that much of the Imperial nobility is connected, and that you designed the same for the Ordelias. I know that Lysithea von Ordelia has my grandfather’s blood in her veins. And I know that you have been lying to me and the entire Round Table for years.”

A moment of silence passed between them, and his father drank a sip of tea. “You think I was the one who condemned the Ordelia children to that fate?” He set down the saucer with a clink of painted china. “No. No, the Empire would have taken them with or without me. The Hrym insurrection demanded payment. You were too young to remember, of course, but I bought them a few years.” He met Lorenz’s eyes. “I convinced their contacts, especially Aegir, that the Ordelia house was under Alliance jurisdiction, and that since they were my vassals, any punitive measures would have to go through my approval first. They informed me that they would give me five years and a steep charge, but I bought them five more years. Fealty is not free, nor is it a small thing, Lorenz.”

“I was the charge,” said Lorenz hollowly. “You used me as a form of payment.”

“Yes,” said his father.

“And my mother knew.”

“No,” said his father, with a shake of the head. “She didn’t. But your mother had little understanding of Fodlan’s intricate politics. She would not have found any sympathy for the difficult choices I made.”

“You used me.”

“I gave you and the Ordelias a brighter future.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Lorenz, shaking his head. “You exploited my goodwill, my mother’s patience, the Ordelias-- you murdered for political gain!”

“I am building a better Alliance! What I have done, I have done for Leicester.”

“You’re a selfish old fool, and if I had an ounce of this _sense_ you keep speaking of, I would silence you from opening your mouth ever again!”

“Get out of my house.”

Lorenz seethed in rage, staring at him, his violet eyes burning with hate.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“Your house?” Lorenz sneered. “It’s as much mine.”

“I could revoke your birthright any moment that I so chose. Andrea’s children would be suitable leaders.”

“Would they?”

“Give me Thyrsus.” His father rose to his feet. “You may be my heir, but I will not let you bring our line to ash.”

“I am afraid that it is not in my possession.” Lorenz smiled, a cathartic, smug smile, a smile of victory. “I have left it in the care of one far more deserving.”

“Where is it!” his father hissed, slamming his palm on the table, and Lorenz realized he had done something entirely unprecedented, that his father never could have calculated when he had given Lysithea Thyrus: something selfless.

“Far from you.”

Like a machine, his father walked to the dining room door, and held it open. “Leave. Get out of this house. You are no longer welcome in my presence, and I no longer wish to see you. You may be the legal inheritor after I die, but that does not make you my son.”

Lorenz stared at him blankly for a moment, then rose and headed to his room. He threw his things in one of his small travelling bags. The letters from his mother. A book or two. A change of clothes. The balm Marianne had given him for his shoulder. A very heavy pouch of gold. And, hefting it over his good shoulder, he also grabbed his good spear.

He descended the stairs. His father was in the foyer, watching him. He stopped under the painting.

“I hate what you did with it,” said Lorenz. “The painting. I despise it. How much blood money was used to pay for the alterations?”

His father didn’t say a word.

“Oh well,” said Lorenz, raising his spear with his right arm and tearing it through the canvas. “If I am not your son, and my mother is not your wife, then this is worthless.”

Without a word, he stormed out, mounted his horse, and left. He knew exactly where he was going, and he had no intention of looking back.


	15. Ch. 14

It was raining when he arrived in Derdriu. Three days on the road, in the same clothes that were designed neither for riding nor travel, but Lorenz felt as though he ought to spare at least one set of clean clothes for his arrival. Most lords owned small homes for business in Derdriu, and his own family was no exception. It was far smaller than the manor, even, he thought, but he at least remembered it from family beach vacations in his childhood. The Gloucesters were no Gonerils, who had multitudes of estates and villas everywhere. But they did have the one, lone little townhouse in the high streets of Derdriu, and that was to where he rode.

His horse’s hooves clicked on the cobblestone roads, and even in the light rain of an evening on the sea, Lorenz could smell the urban air. Food being prepared, yes, but also decaying wood, damp wool and cotton in the rain, waste, factory smoke, human warmth-- it was not a horribly unpleasant smell, but it was a far stretch from sweet. The high streets were where the wealthiest of the wealthy resided, including merchants, far from the lower streets near the factories and docks. The money lived along the high, rocky cliffs and stone cathedrals along the sea, and the tidal lowlands and piers and barges and the bay crammed with rickety boats was where everything else was shoved aside by the wealthy. Riding through Derdriu’s wider streets, even Lorenz could feel the tangible change from the poor districts to the wealth.

He knew where the Glouceseter townhome was. He’d spent a month the winter before here, and he also knew it was unstaffed and empty when his father wasn’t there. A tight turn down a tree lined avenue, with tidy, older, white stone town houses packed together like books along a shelf, and the cherry red wood door, with its violet shutters that distinguished it from the handful of other lit homes along the boulevard, announced itself. Lorenz ducked into the back stables, pulling his horse behind him.

The doors were locked. He didn’t have to be a genius to know that. But, he could pray there were no neighbors watching as he eyed one of the windows. It didn’t have a latch; with a little force, it would easily open and he could climb through. He jostled it lightly with one hand to test it, making sure none of the neighboring lights were on.

Confident in his assertion that he wasn’t being watched, Lorenz pushed hard on the paned window, and with a pop, it opened, the barrier between the cool, dry interior and the cold damp outside, now permeable. One foot in front of the other, he climbed in.

This was the window to the back sitting room. He recognized it first by the fireplace mantle, if not simply by instinctive feeling; the tiles were beautiful glazed ceramic, painted in beautiful black negatives, with stylized birds. His mother had ordered these, he remembered, and they hadn’t had enough for the big receiving fireplace in the country manor, so she had put them up here. He remembered her, hands smudged with grout, laughing as his father brought her a glass of water-- how old had he been? Seven? He didn’t know. He shut the window and searched for a lantern, then a way to light the braziers around the home, so he wasn’t entirely in the dark in the little house.

Little it was, thought Lorenz, tiptoeing towards the dim kitchen, the only light having come in from the outdoor street lamps on the boulevard outside. It was barely two bedrooms, the single parlor, a dining room, a single water closet, and a combined library and study up on the third level. Of course, it was enough for him-- he was one single young man, and at Garreg Mach he had been content in a far smaller space. But he remembered his father complaining of the compactness the last time, and he supposed that it made meetings all the more miserable for the old man that he had to meander through a place full of far more sentimental keepsakes of his family than the country manor was.

The kitchen had a cupboard full of candles and wax and the candlelighter stick, as well as the striker. He used the striker to light the lantern first, then from the lantern, lit a few candles to carry around. Within a few minutes, everything was dimly lit-- but lit nonetheless.

Paintings of his family, his grandparents-- they were in the parlor room. Lorenz had always liked these paintings better. A few of them were only a few steps above simple coal sketches, and most were on paper, preserved under glass, but they seemed warmer than the great elaborate hall commissions of the Gloucester estate. One was his father and aunt as kids, his aunt curly haired and violet and all laughter, while her older brother stood in a play soldier’s costume. His grandparents had a sketch drawn from the year before his grandmother died, holding one another, both smiling at each other eye in eye. A wedding portrait of his parents that had been the sketch draft for the one in the house, where perhaps they had gotten his mother’s dress slightly off, but the smile in her eyes was unmistakable, and his father looked quite nearly shy. They were more human, thought Lorenz, looking at the sketch his father had done of his mother, asleep, laying back in bed, with an infant son in her arms. He held it gingerly. What a family they’d become, he thought with some sadness, setting it aside. 

Lorenz was hungry, but that could wait until he’d pick up some groceries the next morning, even though he was a poor cook. Even he could put together bread and eggs and cut an apple. And, his primary concern was keeping enough tea on hand. He went to the water closet and took a long, soaking bath-- enough to ease the dull ache rain brought to his joints out, enough to soak away the exhaustion of travel-- rebandaged his shoulder, and went to sleep.

Lorenz didn’t know what time it was when he woke up. The birds were chirping, and though it was still cold outside, Derdriu was balmier than Gloucester in the spring. What had awoken him, he thought, bleary eyed as he reached for one of the spare dressing robes on the guest bedroom chair.

A knock.

There it was again. It was downstairs, likely on the front cherry door, he thought, but that whoever it was had now knocked twice, gave Lorenz an uneasy feeling. This was his house, surely, he had no reason to feel nervous, but even so, he tiptoed down the stairs and peeked out the curtains before even looking out the door.

Judith von Daphnel stood on the stone carved doorstep, arms crossed, waiting for someone to answer. Lorenz swallowed, and sighed. She probably wouldn’t leave.

Lorenz unlocked the door (and suddenly recalled he hadn’t bothered to get the door key spare from their spot behind the bookshelf the night before), and opened it with a click.

“Ah, Commander,” he said patiently. He hadn’t seen her since he had attended the Round Table meeting over a year and a half ago with his father. “What brings you to my door so early in the morning?”

If she was taken aback, she didn’t show it. “Gloucester,” she said with a curt nod. “Nothing serious. Is your father around? I thought he’d just left a week ago.”

“He is not.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “He is in residence at the country estate.”

“Ah.” The corners of her mouth turned into a frown. “You’re here alone?”

Something about her tone made Lorenz feel like she knew something he didn’t, but he simply nodded affirmatively. “I am.”

“Well, next time don’t go climbing through the windows of your own house.” She hesitated. “My wife and I are in Derdriu for the next two months, so you’re free to visit us if you aren’t occupied with business.”

“Right.” Lorenz paused. “I would invite you in for tea, ma’am, but I’m afraid--”

“That’s quite alright,” she said, waving her hand. “I just came to see if your father had returned or not and to extend the invitation.”

“Thank you,” said Lorenz, eager to get off of the doorstep in his pajamas, and into his warm house in his pajamas. “I shall come to call!”

“Don’t hurry,” she said, waving as she stepped back down onto the streets. What a gruff woman, thought Lorenz-- quite antonymous to his mother, though he had supposed that for a long time. He stepped back inside and shut the door.

Lorenz took quick inventory of the kitchen pantry and found exactly nothing but some wine bottles, rye flour, and honey-- then started mentally calculating what he needed to purchase to feed himself. He then dressed in the dark red set he’d packed, pocketed a few of his gold pieces, and got the key to the townhouse, locking it behind him with a click. It was still cold, and the humid damp of the day before was still very present, but at the very least, thought Lorenz, it wasn’t raining. A hint of a scent he had not detected the night before crept into the peripherals of his mind: salt.

The sea breeze came over the cliffs of Derdriu that morning in quite the sweep, rustling his coat as he searched for a bakery, a grocer, and an apothecary-- actually, he knew well where to find the latter. There had been an older man and his granddaughter, he had a lovely conversation with them the winter before-- that was checked off of his mental list. He had written the list of things he needed down on his notepad, and he would follow it.

The grocer’s was easy to find. Dried cheeses were on display in the window, and the bell rung as he pushed open the door. He kept his head low and his shoulders hunched as he approached the counter, trying to look as innocuous as he could.

“What can I do you for?” said the man at the counter, barely looking up.

“Might I get some eggs? And, that fine aged cheese in the window, a quarter pound of it? Some onions and radishes and mushrooms and...well, whatever is in season.” He cleared his throat. “And some soured cream.”

“Buyin’ a whole larder?” asked the man half jokingly as he handed Lorenz the goods over the counter.

“I’ve recently moved,” said Lorenz. “Might I buy that basket as well?” He had just realized that he had no way to carry his groceries. “And your finest tea blend please.”

“Alright then,” he said, packing it all into the basket. “Two silver and seven copper.” Lorenz opened his pouch.

“Change for a gold?” He winced, realizing he almost certainly looked incredibly suspicious, but to his surprise, the man took it without question. He threw the change into his pocket, and walked down the street, basket under his arm, eyes open for a bakery.

Teahouses. A specialty bookstore that had not just woodblock prints, but handwritten specialty tomes. A few tailors and leatherworkers. And, in one window-- poppyseed rolls. He saw them before he smelled them, through the window, where they were heaped on display. Swinging open the door, the warm dry air of the bakery as comforting as a furnace and smelling of yeast, sweets, and butter.

Five minutes later, he was out again with two rye loaves and six of the poppyseed rolls as a token for the dinner invitation later that evening, tucked into the basket. Then it was to the apothecary’s, where they did not remember him, but he was completely alright with that, as the old man was just as clever as he remembered and knew well what Lorenz was looking for: a simple reliever of inflammation and pain, and a sleep aid. With a nod of graciousness and a tip, Lorenz walked back to his townhome, and unloaded his things, spreading them out on the wood, sun drenched counter. He inspected all of it closely. Well, he wasn’t sure what to do, he thought, picking one of the pears up and taking a bite out of the sweet, almost spongy soft flesh. He could cut himself some bread and cheese and have a light lunch, but really he wanted tea.

Oh, thank the Goddess-- he had tea. With professional swiftness, he lit the furnace and the stove alike, and set the kettle on the stove to boil, and before he knew it, in his long distracted thoughts of what had transpired in the last three weeks, he had tea. It rose to a sweet, lavender scented steam through the room, and Lorenz sliced himself some fresh bread and cheese, and in lieu of other company or any formality, the tea was poured into a ceramic mug. It almost felt quaint, thought Lorenz as he sat at the small kitchen table. There was nothing particularly special to being warm and comfortable, the stiff formality melted away from him, invisible in the kitchen of half his childhood-- but for a moment, it did feel that way.

He threw away the other half of his afternoon poking through the house. There were no letters; his father must have kept all of those at the country estate, so there were no extra clues he was missing. In a way, that was a relief. A few books sat on the shelves, woodblock print novels his mother had collected. Some of them had wonderful relief artwork through the pages-- she must have once had a particular soft spot for political dramas, he thought, leaving most of them undisturbed. His father had a few books-- poetry, magic speculation, and even a romance novel or two. There was a stash of blankets in the sitting room, too, hidden in one of the chests, that had been disturbed, probably by his father during his recent stay. He took them out and held them close-- they smelled like wool and cedar, knit in heavy reds and oatmeals and browns. He left that one on the sofa. Everything seemed entirely quite comfortable and well arranged, he thought-- although he might take down a few of his grandfather’s hunting trophies and put them upstairs out of sight, as he despised the things. He even found a few toys he must have left leaving around as a kid and they had never cleaned out. It was a time capsule, he thought. The townhouse had moved in slow motion all of these years, and here he was, finding wooden cavalry horse toys under furniture.

Eventually he gave up on his exploration. By then, it was late in the afternoon, and if he had to guess, he would have said he would be welcome at the Daphnel residency by that time. Straightening his jacket, brushing his hair, polishing his shoes, and packing up the poppyseed rolls, Lorenz at last surveyed himself in the hall mirror-- and picked through the box on the shelf beside it. A pearl brooch of his mother’s sat, having gathered dust, at the very bottom of the wood box, barely the size of a pencil case. It was filled with earrings and slips of paper and ribbons and cufflinks and...The brooch. He pinned it hesitantly to the lapel of his coat and left.

The streets were bright, the warm yellow glow of every house lit casting a cozy, soft golden haze over the avenues. Their home had been a few blocks down, he remembered, painted in blues and yellows, and he had walked past it during the day. People were out walking, stray cats fattened on rich scraps lounged on windowsills, and the place felt very alive, as if there was no reason for Lorenz to be lonely at all. Even the crisp sea breeze smelled inviting somehow. Derdriu, he thought-- well, it wasn’t the worst place to be.

The door to the Daphnel townhome was open before Lorenz had even knocked, and Jonquil von Daphnel leaned against the doorframe, a bright smile on her face.

“The Gloucester boy is here, Judith,” she called over her shoulder, her low, melodic voice bright. Lorenz had always admired Lady Jonquil; she was especially handsome in a princely way, and cut a very striking figure in any room. She was tall and broad shouldered, had immaculately tidy short red hair, and her brown skin always seemed to have a healthy, sunny glow. The crisp white she wore may not have been as fine a fabric as something his father wore, but she looked twice as stately in it. She was more gentlemanly than many gentlemen that Lorenz knew, and he was always happy to see her: she had been close and dear to his mother.

“Already?” Judith waved a hand out one of the doors, stepping outside into the corridor as she fastened on an earring. “Come inside, come inside,” she said, “unless you want to gawk on the step for the rest of the evening.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Lorenz, and Jonquil left the door open, as Lorenz shut it behind him. “Ah, I brought some favors.”

“How considerate!” Jonquil said. “If you could just leave them in the kitchen--”

“Of course, ma’am,” said Lorenz with a nod.

“It’s the last door on the left, before the stairs. I’ll be in the sunroom!”

“Yes ma’am!” said Lorenz, twisting the knob to the door and hastily setting it on the counter-- their kitchen was far better supplied, and there was something that smelled of herbs and butter and...maybe rabbit, he supposed, on the stove. He shut the door behind him, and the sunroom was easy to find: it was, on two of its sides, wholly windows, with no hinged door but a simple archway. Lorenz surveyed the room politely, hands behind his back. There were half finished paintings everywhere, and a few easels around the room. The upholstery was all in sunny yellows and the fireplace, though lit, didn’t feel like it was the primary source of warmth in the room. A small cat curled beside the bricks, and Jonquil von Daphnel was stoking the fireplace.

“You can sit down, Lorenz,” she said behind her, as a log crackled. “The chairs don’t bite. And take off your coat! You’re a guest, not an intruder.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, hastily setting his red wool coat on one of the pegs beside the door. Jonquil was clearly trying to conceal a laugh, and he awkwardly sat down. How did one engage in a conversation with their mother’s dear friends twenty five years one’s senior alone?

“I’ve heard you were quite accomplished at Garreg Mach academy. Congratulations on graduating, by the way.” She rested her elbow lazily on the arm of the chair as she sat down.

“Thank you,” he said, folding his hands politely on his lap. “I am accomplished, but I fear my skills as a mage and a knight alike both have quite a distance to go.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” said Jonquil. “But good work anyways! I heard you were fearsome on the battlefield too. Is that what happened to your shoulder?”

“My shoulder?” Lorenz shook his head. “No ma’am, I am quite afraid your source is likely misguided on that account. This was more an act of my own judgement than any fierce heroism or great deeds. What I mean to say is, I acted rashly and foolishly, and these have been the consequences.”

“You do like four syllable words,” said Judith, approaching from the door and sitting down in the chair beside her wife’s, a sun-bleached blue floral that looked like it was older than the commander herself.

“Ah, yes ma’am,” said Lorenz.

“Anyways, with all things considered, I hope your judgement calls get a little sharper. Your father was thinking of putting you in command of the Gloucester county soldiers, and if that’s one of your school mistakes, I don’t want to know what your calls could do on the battlefield.” She paused. “Couldn’t be worse than Matty, though.”

“Oh, stop,” said Jonquil. “Give him advice or something if you’re going to complain.”

“My advice?” said Judith. “Winning is less important than surviving.” She inspected his face from a distance. “But I get the feeling that has to be learned the hard way.” 

Lorenz uncomfortably shifted in his seat. “I see,” he said patiently. “I ask with all due respect, but what brings the two of you to Derdriu? Now that the session with the Round Table has ended, would you not be obliged to return to Daphnel?”

A silence settled over the room after Lorenz asked that question.

“I think the dog wants out,” said Jonquil, rising to her feet. “Judith, where did you leave the leash?”

“On the counter,” called Judith, standing, and walking to one of the windows. “Lorenz, come here,” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, standing by her side at the window. From the sunroom, it was clear that the Daphnel townhouse was perched over the very edge of a hill, and one could see over the clay tiled roofs of Derdriu all the way to the not-so-distant sea. “Why are you here?”

“We’re meeting your mother this week. Her ship will come in within three or four days from Dagda.”

Lorenz’s first emotion was glee, giddy childish glee-- and then a realization that she hadn’t told him. She hadn’t told him at all. She had said she’d be here in the summer, not spring. Why would she deceive him?

“I am inclined to ask, of course, why she wouldn’t have told me, considering that she and I have been in contact and that I must assume she informed both of you.”

“She did,” said Judith, crossing her arms, looking out over the horizon. “The original plan was to wait a short while and ensure Derdriu was safe for her to be here, then for me to act as a third party and ask you to come on business and come spend time with her. It would keep your father out of the business altogether and would be on schedule, too. But you’re already in Derdriu.”

“And she simply didn’t tell me.” Lorenz didn’t want to pout, he understood the reason, of course. Regardless, though, he wished she had greater confidence in him.

“She didn’t know how much you would tell your father.” Judith sighed. “Your parents are complicated people.”

“I have found that to be the case time and time again. I am starting to wonder if I will ever understand.”

“It’s not something I think is my place to explain.” Judith turned to him. “In your mother’s favor, though, I will say, Jonquil and I trust her.”

“I would hope that you do if you so act in her plans.” Lorenz sat down on the window bench.

“I take care of old friends,” she said plainly, a wistful look on her face that told Lorenz she wasn’t just thinking of Theo. “I made dinner, so no complaining. It’s not any of the gourmet you probably eat in Gloucester, either.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Lorenz, who, in spite of the commander’s slightly gruff nature, had realized he had every reason to be grateful to her: she was the very reason he could see his mother again.

At that moment, a yip of the dog outside told Lorenz that Jonquil was nearly back, and a click of the door confirmed it. “Darling,” she called from the front, “is it dinner?”

“Yes, I’m on my way,” said Judith, popping the kitchen open door and leaning in. “Can you get the dishes? I’m getting the--” Judith gestured to the stove and the basket of bread in the warmer above it.

“Mhm,” said Jonquil. “Lorenz, be a dear and help me with the table setting.” Jonquil reached into the cabinets and handed him three glasses before he had a chance to turn them down.

“Yes ma’am,” said Lorenz, who was somewhat flabbergasted by the entire welcome party and conversation he’d just had, and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet. “Ah, where is the dining room?”

“Follow me,” said Jonquil, leaning back and pushing the door open with her back as the cutlery and plates balanced in her arms. She closed the dining room door behind them. “Thank you for bringing dessert, by the way,” she said with a smile.

“It is only polite to bring such favors,” said Lorenz, hunting for napkins in the cabinet and arising victorious with a daisy yellow silk. “Ah, I apologize for the short notice of my arrival and visitation.”

“You’re always welcome, Lorenz,” said Jonquil, “even if Judith doesn’t say it. I love having guests, and Judith loves hearing news and whereabouts, and it balances itself out in the end.”

Lorenz was quiet for a moment as he fussed with the tablecloth in his arms. “This may be the first formal dinner I have had in an entire year.”

“What about your father?” asked Jonquil, taking two of the corners and with an elegant swish of her arms, laying it over the table.

“No,” said Lorenz, “I made my departure from the estate before he and I had the chance to properly dine together.”

“If you don’t really want to talk about it, that’s fine. I told Judith to invite you so that we could make sure you had company and weren’t alone and bored during your stay. I don’t really know what the young people these days do,” she said, as if she wasn’t only just starting to gray at the temples, “but I am sure that a dinner party never loses style.”

“I daresay I agree with you.” Lorenz smiled and thought for a moment. “No, I ought to be completely honest and frank. My father and I have come to a series of disputes with which I may one day ask for your aide.”

Jonquil reached for the stack of plates and set them in their places, the plinks of china against wood muffled by the thin cloth. “I thought it would come to that eventually.” She hesitated. “I don’t know the nature of it, but I know Matthias has always been more invested in what he sees as the future, than his family. It’s put him in bad spots before. I’m sure you have your own reasons.”

“Thank you for understanding,” said Lorenz, letting out a sigh as he felt his whole body retract like a cable having been cut. “I...I may have destroyed the mantle portrait in the manor.”

“You did?” Jonquil’s eyes were wide, and she let out a deep laugh. “Oh, I bet Matthias was livid. He was so proud of it, he commissioned some bigwig painter-- oh, Lorenz.” She set out the cutlery. “I hope you don’t mind if I tell Judith. She’ll get a good laugh out of that.”

“Not at all,” admitted Lorenz sheepishly. “Ah, I may need your help--”

“Not over dinner.” Jonquil held up a finger. “We have a strict no business policy at the dinner table, or else I would never have any time where my wife talked about anything else.”

“I see,” said Lorenz. “As a guest, I shall honor your rules.”

“Please, cut the formalities,” said Jonquil. “I remember when you were this high and couldn’t say any words longer than five letters.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Lorenz, who was used to being a noble among nobles at Garreg Mach and was now being cut back down to size by his mother’s friends.

“Get the door,” Judith called from the other side. “Stew coming.”

“Ah!” Lorenz darted to the door, holding it open.

“I’ll get the bread and wine,” said Jonquil, kissing her wife’s cheek as she set the pot down on the table’s trivets. “Smells delicious.”

“You flatterer,” said Judith, smiling at her in a way that made Lorenz remember happier times. “Sit down!” she said, waving a hand to Lorenz.

“Yes ma’am,” said Lorenz, sitting across from their seats and folding his napkin in his lap. “I say that this is a finer meal than any that I have had in a year, if not simply by merit of your cooking.”

“If you compare my cooking to Garreg Mach’s,” said Judith, brandishing a serving ladle, “I will kick you out of my house.”

Jonquil laughed as she walked back in. “It wasn’t that bad. Better than starving, and better than the rations we used to get from the monastery. I am sure, though,” said Jonquil, “that the food at Garreg Mach is the reason that I’m the shortest of my sisters.”

“Oh come on,” said Judith, nudging her. “By the way, Lorenz, speaking of Garreg Mach, you do know one of your school friends is in town for the next few months.”

“I was aware Claude was here, yes,” said Lorenz. “The Riegan seat is in Derdriu. I was under the assumption he’d return here.”

“He’s leaving in three months, though,” said Jonquil. “Actually, he was here for dinner last week. He’s a fun guest.”

“I meant to say that you should probably meet up with him,” said Judith. “Or introduce him to your mother, even.”

“It’s a little soon for that, don’t you think?” whispered Jonquil, to which Lorenz could feel his cheeks rise to a heat.

“I meant it in the sense of diplomatic relations, Jonni,” said Judith wrinkling her nose at her wife.

“I shall look into it,” said Lorenz, clearing his throat and pouring himself a glass of wine. “Shall we eat, then?”


	16. Intermission, Updates, and Thoughts

I feel the need to take something of a mid-season intermission, where I speak directly as a writer on a matter important to me, as a creator and also as a reader. And, the summary and note space is not enough for this-- so I thought I would just post an intermission of sorts as its own chapter. I would like to talk about accountability in creation, especially writing, and make clear my feelings to my readers-- all of whom I respect and admire. I do my best to reply to as many of your comments as I can, and in almost every case, I peruse your accounts, I silently consider what kinds of people you may be, and I am grateful to the nth degree for your readership and kindness.

Writing is, in a way, a paradox of both humility and vanity alike. In a sense, writing is the ultimate in narcissism and arrogance. We writers not only assume that we can capture the divine spark of humanity in storytelling, to tiptoe into the shoes of another and not only walk in them for a day, but for what often feel like endless pages, for sometimes months and years of writing-- and after that act of ultimate audacity takes us to distant places, we even assume others would like to hear us speak of our journey. But, in a sense, it is humbling to step outside of ourselves, to drop our own personas and assumptions, to remove our own selves from a story altogether at times-- and to rely so greatly on you, our readers. Writing is like cooking: the most nourishing and fulfilling works are not just meant to be eaten alone. They are best shared.

It is because of this, that I must say that I intend to be considerate of every last one of you. If I ever write anything or say anything that may be hurtful or harmful in any way, I would like to be held accountable. As someone who speaks in allegory, as, I’m sure if you’ve gotten this far, you know-- I think I have many for writing, but in this specific instance, I walk myself back to my days of wild outdoor camping. If you are familiar with how to build a fire, what is the most important thing? What begins the great spark that ignites tinder? Resistance, and friction. You cannot build a fire, without that friction-- and implicitly, there must always be the trust that the tinder and logs are safe and receptive, but will not burn out of control-- that the readers vigilantly and carefully help me tend it. Writing of even the most droll fanfiction (of which I know this work is not) still grows primarily through criticism, and at times, it is difficult to hear or to be held accountable. As much faith as you place in me as a writer, I place in you, all of my readers-- to hold me accountable if ever I do anything that hurts you, in any way. I will not say I will open a dialogue: _what hurts you, is not negotiable on my part._ I will say that I will _listen_ , that great skill many writers struggle to capture as our pens and keyboards and heads full of ideas runneth over and we trip over ourselves to let out, and I will consider and grow and do my best to treat you, my readers, with as much kindness as I can.

All criticism is welcome. All accountability is welcome. Though I walk in some of the same shoes as our protagonist in this story, and thus, do find myself quite attached to him, I am by no means a perfect person. Nobody is. Those who keep up with my reading habits via social media may find themselves recognizing my admiration of a certain author, the illustrious Ursula K. Le Guin. She says all things better than I ever could: _“A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls.”_ I would like to use my words well. I would like to use them with care. I would like to share it with you all.

I thank you all again for the four months now of kindness and love, of comments and feedback and enthusiasm. There’s still plenty in store around the bend, but I will likely be taking a short hiatus while I gather my bearings, move, and deal with other things in my real adult world, so the next update, though I will be continuously working on this fic, may be a longer stretch away than you are all used to. I hope your day is wonderful, and I hope you continue to enjoy my work. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.


	17. Ch. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooooo lads it's been a while anyways have this gay gay gay little update

Dinner waned from the fullness of laughter and storytelling, of the fragments of old tales and the rhythmic cycles of Judith and Jonquil’s light bickering and Lorenz’s curt attempts at manners-- to the sliver of an evening, punctuated by interludes of hot tea.

Toying with his dessert with a fork (he could hear Lysithea’s complaints in his mind even now), Lorenz glanced up as Jonquil and Judith parsed between the both of them the details of a few months behind them’s meetings. The doughy, dense pastry stretched at the tug of his fork, and he glanced up at Judith as she mentioned something of his father.

His thoughts were occupied, he’d confess, with the dream and hope to meet his mother. His mother. He could remember her voice, her face, the music she sang, the way she spoke to him so kindly, and so much about her-- but he didn’t know how many of his memories he could trust. The way that things had changed since then, the way he had changed since then, made him wonder. Perhaps she would be meeker, milder than he recalled, the strong elegant grace of her an illusion from the start. Maybe she would be harsh, or even cruel outright. Maybe she would be distant or mushy or-- there were ten thousand things his mind may have betrayed about her. With what his father had said of her, that she knew about the plan to kill Godfrey von Riegan, he wasn’t sure he remembered her at all.

“Lorenz?” Jonquil stared at him. “Are you home? Hello?”

“Pardon me?” Lorenz’s attention was caught, as he jerked into the waking world of the after-dinner table.

“I was just asking what you wanted to speak about before dinner.” Jonquil stared at him with an expectant, welcome smile, the way one looked at someone on their doorstep before inviting them in-- while he noted that Judith had a keen, sharp look in her eyes and a taciturn expression. He could not say which was more dangerous.

“Ah.” Lorenz was suddenly quite uncertain of himself. “I am familiar with the proceedings required to remove a sitting member of the Round Table. I must preface my coming statements with that, so that you are properly braced.” He cleared his throat. “I intend to bring specific charges against my father to the Round Table in a closed-door proceeding, and act as his interim replacement. In order to bring forth proceedings from an outside member of the Round Table, there must be a sponsor from inside. I intended to ask you to speak to Duke Riegan on my behalf.”

If Judith was surprised, she didn’t show it. No telltale gleam took her eyes, no jaw dropped. She listened intently. And she thought for a few moments.

“My support is contingent on the charges.” Her thumb and index finger were against her chin, clearly in thought. “What do you have, and where’s your evidence?”

“May we talk about it another time? When I have properly braced myself? I apologize, I did not come prepared.”

“I would be free tomorrow afternoon if this isn’t too pressing, and you need time.” She glanced at Jonquil, who had a look of worn concern in her eyes. “Dear?”

“I’m just being too…” She paused. “Well, I’m just worried is all.” She rested her hands on the table. “If it troubles you so much that you’d come to us for help, I suppose I’m concerned for your well being. I apologize that I neglected to ask, but...you seem quite overwhelmed. I didn’t want to be rude, Lorenz, but you must know that we can listen. We’re old people,” she said, pushing back the dark red hair that had fallen around her ears, “so that’s what we’re here for.”

“I would not burden you with such troubles,” said Lorenz, shaking his head. “We ought to enjoy our dessert pleasantly, rather than dwelling on such pitiable matters.”

“No four syllable words after dinner,” said Judith, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“And it’s not a pitiable matter!” said Jonquil, nudging her wife.

“Lorenz,” said Judith with a sigh, “you don’t have to make a case file just to tell us what’s happening. It’s fine. You can tell us if something’s wrong without evidence, and clearly something is wrong, or else you wouldn’t have been climbing into the window of your own house yesterday.”

“I--” It pained him to try to articulate it politely, especially to people who cared about him in a less complicated, more plain sense than those of his classmates. A classmate was an equal, an acquaintance who was altogether powerless and unfamiliar with Lorenz’s familial arrangements. Judith and Jonquil von Daphnel were adults-- real adults, who had the power to stand up for him and advise him. To bring his troubles before them felt far more strange. “I have substantial evidence that the incident of my disappearance six years ago and subsequent decline in health are tied to the death of Godfrey von Riegan via my father. He sacrificed my well being for his political benefit.”

Judith sighed and took a sip of tea. “I’m not surprised.” She took a forkful of her poppyseed roll and chewed pensively. “You say you’ve got proof?”

“A substantial amount of proof is embodied in me, as a matter of fact.”

“Pardon?” Judith tilted her head.

“It is difficult for me to say it-- pardon me.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea, trying to soothe himself enough to say it. “I have the crest of Riegan, and obtained it via the transfusion of Godfrey von Riegan’s blood, into my own.”

Jonquil’s hand flew to her mouth, and Judith’s eyes went wide.

“Oh stars above,” whispered Jonquil. “Is that why--”

“My hair is white and my constitution is thus compromised?” He nodded. “It is also, I suspect, the reason for which my father concealed me for the majority of my teenage years.” The sobriety with which he could say it belied the tremor of his hands, the floodgate opened as the two women stared at him.

Judith sighed. “Matthias,” she muttered under her breath, half of a threat. “Your mother will kill him. I’m sure of it.”

“I pray that she doesn’t, only for her sake.” Lorenz sighed. “I fear that should he be killed prematurely, then the truth shall never be brought to light.”

“Prematurely?” Judith raised an eyebrow. “You’re already plotting his death, I see.”

“Ah, I did not mean such a statement! I only meant--”

“I’m just teasing.” Judith said, with a faint smile over the pensive, softened sorrow of a woman more tired than she had any right to be. “You should probably know that the Round Table has investigated your father’s involvement with Godfrey’s death already, but the picture of motivations and details was too blurry for anything to matter formally. And,” she said hesitantly, “Goneril and Edmund will back him unconditionally. I suspect your father’s done too much for Lady Ordelia for her to turn on him now, too. It’ll be me, and Duke Riegan, in your corner.”

“I have been prepared to fail.”

“Lorenz…” She trailed off. “Your reputation, no matter how you do it, will always be that you removed your father, or tried to. If you succeed people will say you supplanted him. If you fail, then unless he revokes your birthright, people will assume your involvement with his eventual death. If Andrea’s daughter is named the successor instead of you, then everyone will know why.” She stared at him. “You don’t win no matter what you do.”

“This is not about victory,” said Lorenz. “Rather, I am interested in a greater thing. The right of this world.”

Jonquil sighed. “You young idealists.” She shook her head and poured herself more tea.

“Young idealists?” Lorenz frowned.

“Young idealists,” repeated Jonquil. “You think you can look forward and right all the wrongs in this world. You think you can take your father out of the Gloucester seat and it’ll sweep all the dust out of the Round Table’s every corner. Or that young girl who’s declared war on the Church. Or Claude, who wants to open Fodlan to the world.” She stirred her cup. “You have a lot of faith in your abilities to fix things for an eighteen year old.”

“But it can be done,” said Lorenz, sitting up straight. “It must be done.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Jonquil. “You know, I used to know someone who thought so, too. I miss her.” There was a wistful sorrow in Jonquil’s eyes. “I think it will take more than just one person to change the world, Lorenz.”

Inexplicably, he found his thoughts drifting to Claude. What was it that he had said-- about playing a part in a grander story? Actors in a play? Well, perhaps Lorenz could understand such a sentiment, but he was also quite sure that a single actor could very well make a production.

There was a knock on the door, and Judith and Jonquil glanced at one another.

“Were you expecting anyone?” asked Jonquil.

“No,” said Judith, begrudgingly rising to her feet and heading to the foyer. “We’ll have to hold off on this conversation.”

“Thank you, by the way,” said Jonquil, a soft look in her brown eyes. “For trusting us. We can do our very best to help you. Judith darling, who is it?” called Jonquil behind her shoulder.

“You’re not going to believe this one,” said Judith, opening the dining room door. Behind her, poking his head into the doorframe, was Claude von Riegan, as if the thought of him alone had summoned him to their dining table.

“If I’m interrupting something, I’ll leave, Judith,” said Claude, a friendly, relaxed grin on his face.

“Claude,” said Jonquil with a smile. “Sit down. Grab some dessert! I’ll get you a teacup.” She rose and walked to the cabinet. “Why are you here, young man?”

“I was just out for a walk,” said Claude with a shrug, sitting cockeyed in one of the dining chairs beside Lorenz. “And I saw the lights in your dining room were lit. I know you two don’t have much company, so I thought I could pop in and say hello.”

“How presumptuous,” said Judith with a twinkle in her eye. “Your mother’s son, through and through. Did I tell you she once walked into our house, at midnight, just to make us eggs?”

“No, you didn’t,” said Claude, leaning back with a smile. “That sounds like her, though. She write to you lately?”

“The usual,” said Judith with a smile. “Nothing I’m sure she hasn’t told you, though. How’s your grandfather?”

“Eh,” said Claude with a shrug. “He’s still around, so it’s a good day.”

“Very funny,” said Jonquil as Claude poured himself some tea.

“So why are you here, Lorenz?” said Claude, finally acknowledging him as if he hadn’t been sitting there watching Claude reunite with their hosts. “I thought you were going back to Gloucester? And, you know, your shoulder doing okay? I still feel a little bad about that one.”

Lorenz stared at him for a second. Claude looked sharp. He was in what amounted to a relatively well worn and loved coat over training gear, nearly, his hair was the slightly messy dark brown curls and braid that Lorenz was used to seeing from the back in the classroom, and he was wearing weathered walking boots. But that glow in his green eyes was still as pointed as Lorenz remembered.

“Ah, there is no need to feel guilty over this,” said Lorenz, snapping out of it and brushing his left shoulder with his right hand. He still flinched. “It’s a little tender, but surely it should be healed within a month or two.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Claude. “Marianne and I really thought for a while that we might’ve lost you. Gave us a real scare, right?” He grinned. “She did tell you to take it easy, though, right?”

“That she did,” said Lorenz almost peevishly.

“You were under explicit instruction to, and I quote, take it easy?” Jonquil raised an eyebrow. “Yet you barged through a window?”

“In my defense,” said Lorenz, who was trying to ignore that Claude’s eyes were almost as wide as his smile, “it is far _easier_ in Derdriu than in Gloucester.”

“There’s some pieces I’m missing here,” said Claude. “You climbed through a window?”

“That is not the issue,” said Jonquil. “You completely ignored the advice of a healer.”

“What more was I to do? Stay in Gloucester and rot in misery with my father?” The table went quiet, and Lorenz suddenly felt embarrassed, the stifling blanket of silence in the room settling on him with a dense weight.

“I apologize,” said Lorenz, at last. “It is unacceptable for me to take such tones at any time, let alone over the table. I ought to have listened to Marianne’s advice.”

“Is there something I don’t know?” Claude looked like a deer in a lamplight.

Judith glanced at him expectantly, as if asking a question.

“There is nothing which is a secret the von Daphnels do not already know,” said Lorenz. “My father and I are no longer on good terms. He has made decisions in the past that I cannot stand by and ignore, and thus, upon confronting him on the matter, I chose to leave Gloucester, at least temporarily. Hence, I needed to climb into the townhome’s window upon my arrival in Derdriu.”

“Oh,” said Claude. “Well, it’s still not really much business of mine, is it?” Claude dropped the cheery, curious facade, the remark more a comment than a joke.

“I suppose it is not,” said Lorenz. “In any case, the hour is late. I ought to return to my own home.” Lorenz stood and bowed in gratitude. “Commander, Lady Daphnel, I must thank you. You have been wonderful hosts.”

“You’re welcome any time,” said Jonquil, pulling him into a bear hug. “You can always talk to us.”

“I know,” said Lorenz in a still, quiet voice.

“I’ll let you know when we get word of the ship coming into port,” said Judith, offering out her hand to shake.

“You want me to walk with you?” Claude stood, hands in his pockets. “Sorry for being so brief, to the ladies of the house, but I can’t allow an old friend to walk home alone.”

“You’re fine, Claude,” said Judith. “But please visit in increments over ten minutes next time.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Claude with another sharp smile-- the kind Lorenz knew from when they’d first met. It was guarded, was what it was. “I’ll tell my mama you’re still around making trouble, alright?”

“Oh, you,” said Judith, nudging him. “Get out. Both of you.”

“We’ll see you!” said Jonquil with a smile and a light side hug to Claude, who was clearly trying to escape with some speed.

“See you!” he called behind him as Lorenz put on his coat and they stumbled out into the chilly spring night together. A light rain was falling, the sort that came in from the sea with the winds, and left a cool sheen on shoulders and necks and the tops of pavement stones. It was dark; the moon was a golden crescent and the stars hung high in the sky.

“Claude,” said Lorenz, straightening out his coat as he began to walk along the pavers, “if you hope that by removing the necessary etiquette of the dinner party, you may glean more information about my circumstances from me, you are sorely mistaken. I am a private man, and I have no interest in conversation on such matters.”

“What gave you that impression?” said Claude. “Can’t I walk a friend home?”

“I would hardly call us friends.”

They were quiet for a few moments, walking side by side along the road to the lamppost.

“This is my corner.” Claude looked at him. “Yours too?”

“It is.” Lorenz paused.

“What would you call us?” There was a challenge in Claude’s eyes, as if naming the thing could make it real, as if a word could truly capture the confusing way that Lorenz felt about him.

“I’m not certain.”

“I think you’re my friend. As much as anyone is, really,” said Claude. “If you don’t want to be, that’s fine, you don’t have to talk to me.”

“There are few people whose company I find as confounding and delightful at once as yours, Claude.”

“But I’m not your friend?” He sounded almost hurt.

“I think my feelings towards you are more complicated than the word friendship can describe.” The guilt of a thousand secrets was starting to burn in his stomach. “I care for your well being and I enjoy time spent with you. But there are things to resolve before I can call you my friend. We may call one another acquaintances, however.”

“You confuse me.”

“I hear that often. Good night, Claude.”

“No,” said Claude, “no, I want to keep talking. Why did you throw yourself in front of a ballista for an acquaintance?”

Lorenz froze, back to him. He pushed a white bang out of his face, damp and stringy with the rain. The still-new wound in his shoulder ached in the chill, or perhaps it was that his posture had gone so rigid that it hurt.

“It’s not that I’m not grateful. I’m just confused. It seems like you’re pushing me away every time I try to talk to you, or any time we’re around each other, you just seem tense. And I’m trying my best to understand why. It’s like you’re afraid of me, but you want to be around me all at once. It makes you impossible to be around. I never know if you’ve got nerves I shouldn’t step on or if someone’s going to say the wrong thing around you. Now, I always like to dance, but how long can we keep this up before one of us gives up?”

“Are you through?” said Lorenz, trying not to sound too biting. “I’m afraid that if I have neglected to be sufficiently warm, it is because I am never certain whether your interest in my personal affairs is genuine or political. This is not even to mention how little I know of you personally. Before tonight, I had not heard you speak a word of a mother, at all. It is like all things around you are shrouded in mystery, but you seek omniscience. Forgive me for not feeling as though I have been treated as one might a _friend_.”

“So you want everyone to tell you everything? I thought that didn’t matter to you.”

“It doesn’t,” said Lorenz, who was beginning to feel like his sails were filled with guilt. “But shouldn’t such things go both ways?”

“But that doesn’t explain quite why you act like you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then why is being around you like walking through a china cabinet?”

“Perhaps having been raised to replace you, specifically, as the leader of our country, makes one uneasy in your presence!”

“That can’t be everything. What’s the truth?”

“I--” Lorenz had to swallow what would have been a frustrated yell. “I am under no obligation to tell you.”

“Then why were you willing to take a ballista for me? Can you tell me that? Because I have been--” Claude stopped, the usually well-spoken suavity dissolved in the rain. “I have been so lost.”

“Because I care for you! Against all odds, and against my better judgement, I care for your well being!” Lorenz swallowed. “I have felt for months this horrible guilt over what occurred, and despite it all, impossible though it must seem, I care whether you live or die.”

Claude stared at him, the rain trickling down the side of his face in the golden lamplight. “Why would you feel guilty?”

Lorenz’s face fell. He had said too much. He couldn’t even hold onto the one thing he was certain he could not say to Claude. “You must promise me that you shall not say a thing to anyone.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“I have your uncle’s blood running in my veins. This hideous truth is the origin of my crest of Riegan. I only just found out this past winter.”

Claude stared at him. “So that’s why you avoid me?”

Partially, Lorenz almost said, but he contented himself to nod. “His demise is at least partly to my benefit. It has made it difficult to look you in the eyes, now that I have been made aware.”

“You dying for me wouldn’t bring my uncle back to life.” Claude stared at him. “I understand why you feel guilty, but dying wouldn’t make it any better. Then I would have just lost someone else.”

“Please don’t say things like that.” Lorenz turned around to look at him.

“That’s right,” said Claude. “We’re not friends. I would be mourning an acquaintance.”

“If my saying so has upset you--”

“Of course it upset me.” Claude shook his head. “I told you-- I told you that honesty was the foundation of trust. It’s everything to me. Knowing the truth and using it appropriately. So I was going to tell you more about me one day. I thought, maybe I could even tell you the truth. You told me yours. But we’re not friends.”

“Claude, I just told you I care for you.”

“But that isn’t the same, is it?” Claude hardened his countenance, and Lorenz knew he was right. He watched his green eyes flicker in the streetlamp light, the rain almost soaking through both their coats.

“I suppose it is not. In which case, you and I must resign to caring for one another, but reserving our trust.”

“How dismal.” Claude shook his head. “You’re staying in Derdriu for how long?”

“Indefinitely.” Lorenz met his gaze, lilac eyes on fern.

“Then maybe we’ve got some time to change that.” Claude stretched his shoulders. “Good night, Lorenz. Thank you for humoring me in the middle of a rainstorm.”

“Good night,” said Lorenz. “Be safe.”


	18. Ch. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a preface for this chapter: i know that this fic has a relatively large following on this site, and i understand that considering the breaks and hiatuses i’ve taken, it’s generated a lot more attention than i expected. i have not stopped working on this fic, but if i must fully disclose things, i have been quite held up on this update for a number of reasons. one of the ones most important to me is the recent controversy regarding site management on archive of our own, and i have used my discretion to decide that this is the fic that i will be posting on archive of our own. the good news is that i have consistently maintained updates for this fic on Fan Fiction Dot Net (i don’t know if it is against the rules for me to link externally to my own fic) under the same name, though my handle is different. please bear in mind that i understand why people may continue to use ao3, but i personally am choosing not to, and it is out of respect and admiration for my readers, and respect for my own work, that i have made this choice. you’ve all been wonderful, and i hope you continue to enjoy my work on another platform!
> 
> tldr: i will be finishing this fic on here-- but it's my last one. all my new work will be on fanfiction dot net, and i implore you to read this one on there too.

Standing side by side on the pier of the low docks of Derdriu, Lorenz glanced at Jonquil von Daphnel. She had a ten mile stare as she watched the sails of the Dagdan merchant ship lower, a smile on her face as she watched passengers wave from the decks, and Lorenz wondered if his mother was up there, looking at them all from over the gunnels of the boat, seeing the single lone young man with milk-white hair from two hundred yards away. He couldn’t see her.

“Are you excited?” asked Jonquil, a beam of a smile on her face.

“As much as one may be,” said Lorenz, who was suddenly feeling very insecure and nervous on the matter.

“She’ll be so happy to see you,” said Jonquil. “Is something bothering you?”

Lorenz pondered it for a moment. “I worry that my memories of her may be...inaccurate. The credibility of my mind is to be doubted at times. Perhaps the memories and imagination of my mother shall never meet the reality.”

Jonquil pursed her lips, and thoughtfully put a hand on his shoulder. “There is a point in your life that you always hit where you have to accept that people are always going to be more complicated than you will ever know. Everyone, on the inside, is just as self-contradictory and mixed up as you are. Your mother is like that, too. But if there’s anything you should never doubt, it’s that she loves you. Unconditionally.”

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” said Lorenz, who had so many things to ask her about why she had gone-- and had, in fact, many doubts, and desperately wanted to understand why she had left.

“As long as you know.” Jonquil squeezed his right shoulder. “Six years now. Almost to the day.”

“It is?” Lorenz tilted his head. “I never knew when she left.”

“It was early spring.” Jonquil watched as people began to get off the boat. “She invited me over for a weekend and she told me everything she knew and said she was leaving. I never thought I’d see her back in Fodlan again.”

“But you did presume that you would see her again elsewhere?” Lorenz glanced at Jonquil.

“I’ve been to Dagda.” Jonquil had a wistful look in her eyes. “It’s a shame you haven’t. You’d like it.”

“I suppose you and the Commander do travel.”

“We. do. And I wish the circumstances were happier,” said Jonquil. “One day, I wish we could go somewhere without Judith leaving a trail behind her. Just us, you know?”

“I know,” said Lorenz, who was tired, too.

“But you should go to Dagda. It’s quite something. Full of natural wonder, far more civil than Fodlan and its warmongering. Your mother missed it a great deal.”

“I would think that all of us should miss our homes at times.”

“Do you?” asked Jonquil, so casual that Lorenz was almost taken aback by how thrown into thought he was. At this point, well, Garreg Mach felt more like a home than the Gloucester estate did.

“Yes.” Lorenz thought for a moment. “Yes, I do.”

“I would imagine.” Jonquil smiled. “Wait-- there she is! Theo!” she called, craning above the crowd, and Lorenz did the same-- as if both of them, taller than most people, really needed to. “Theophania!”

“Jonquil?” That was a voice Lorenz knew. That was his mother. His mother! Where was she!

“Over here!” called Jonquil, and then, Lorenz caught a glimpse of his mother.

Somehow in his memories he remembered her as tall, regal, like a beacon of a woman, a statue with those piercing dark violet eyes. But in person once more, he found that such a memory must have been that of a child. She was quite short-- perhaps only a few inches above Lysithea or Edelgard, he supposed. But she had left before he had hit his first growth spurt; of course he thought of her as tall! She was, in fact, regal nonetheless. Her round, elegant face had been softened by wrinkles and age, and her long, loose, pitch black hair was now streaked with hints of gray. She was dressed in garb he supposed must have been Dagdan-- her coat sleeves were long and wide, made of printed silk, and the long belted skirt and dress were elegant, brightly colored and draped. But that was certainly her, thought Lorenz as she pulled a trunk behind her.

“Theo, let me help you,” said Jonquil, approaching, and rather than surrender her trunk, Theo threw her arms around Jonquil in a broad hug.

“Oh, Jonquil,” she said, “it’s good to see your face.”

Lorenz hovered nervously behind Jonquil, suddenly shy of her-- and Theo looked up from her dear friend’s shoulders, and saw Lorenz.

At first, there was a glimmer of disbelief in her eyes as she looked at him. Then, that disbelief turned to love, and she parted from Jonquil and approached, standing in front of her son and looking up at him. Those violet eyes could see right through him, he thought-- and just as he opened his mouth to speak, she drew him into an embrace, holding him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack or she’d reopen his injured shoulder. He could feel her sobs.

The last time he’d hugged his mother, he had been twelve, nearly thirteen. He wished he could have ever said goodbye to her, but then, it wasn’t goodbye. Not anymore. This was a reunion. He put his good arm around her, and kissed the top of her head, remembering the way he would kiss her cheek good night when he was little.

“Lorrie,” she choked out, “you’ve gotten so big.”

“I know,” he said, trying his hardest not to cry.

“I...I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought you were gone, forever.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Lorrie, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re here now,” said Lorenz, “so there’s no need to keep apologizing, Mama.”

“Look at you, all grown up,” she said, backing away slightly, and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “My little prince. And look at your hair!” She reached up and ran her fingers through it. “You haven’t been eating right, it’s stringy. Still just as glossy, but you cut it so short. Very stylish,” she said with a smile. “And you’re so tall! Is that…” She put a hand on his bad shoulder. “Did you earnestly get a battle wound?” She shook her head. “Fodlan. This never would have happened anywhere else. You’re just nineteen.”

“It is not nearly as bad as it looks,” said Lorenz, a little defensive. “Circumstances were extenuating.”

“Well, you can tell me all about it once we’re back at the Daphnel house,” she said. “And I want to hear everything good tonight.”

“Good specifically?” said Lorenz.

“Tonight,” she said, “I think we rejoice. Jonquil, I’ve got the trunk, please, don’t--”

“No, I can handle it,” said Lorenz.

“Such a gentleman,” said Jonquil sarcastically, though she allowed Lorenz to pick it up. He found it surprisingly heavy, and understood now why his mother had been dragging it rather than carrying it. He took his right hand out of his pocket and removed his glove, then cast a plain floating incantation.

“Don’t waste a spell on me,” said his mother, turning around. “You’re going to wear yourself out and turn into a withered old man.”

“Please don’t concern yourself over that,” said Lorenz, shrinking a little as he pushed the trunk along. “It’s far easier this way, really.” Not to mention, he thought morosely, he was rather sure he would never be a withered old man. But this was a time for celebrations, he thought.

“How’s the old ball and chain?” asked Theo to Jonquil jokingly.

“Judith?” Jonquil grinned. “You know her. As duty bound as they come, stubborn as a mule, and she’s back to getting involved on the Round Table.”

“I thought she was satisfied with Helene?” Theo looked at her suspiciously. “That’s what she told me back when Helene got put on the Round Table.”

“No,” said Jonquil. “No, she’s involved because of the Riegans.”

“Godfrey--”

“No,” said Jonquil, shaking her head. “No, Tiana’s son.”

Theo inhaled sharply, glancing at Jonquil, eyes wide. “Tiana has a son.”

“You could ask Lorenz all about him,” said Jonquil. “They were classmates.” Lorenz, silently walking behind them, knew he had heard or read the name Tiana somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where.

“I had my suspicions, of course, when I visited her after she was married,” said Theo, “but I suppose I didn’t connect that the new Riegan heir would be her son. I supposed he would stay in Almyra, and Godfrey, well...you remember Godfrey. If anyone would have an illegitimate son, it would’ve been him.”

“Very funny, Theo,” said Jonquil. “But yes, he’s Tiana’s son.”

Lorenz’s mind was flying a million miles an hour. Who was Tiana! Why did he know the name, and why was Almyra mentioned in the same breath? And why was Claude’s mother so shrouded in mystery? He recognized the irony of how confounded he was by the last question, but nonetheless-- he wanted to know.

“Well, Oswald had to be desperate.”

“He’s got a crest,” said Jonquil. “And I’m sure you know that people will do anything for crests.”

A quiet settled over the two women, and Lorenz could feel the lingering tension of such a statement.

“Sorry,” blurted Jonquil. “Not really the right way to say that, was it!”

“No sense in being sorry,” said Theo. “So Oswald finally found another heir he thinks is worth his time, and Judith can’t keep her nose out of anyone’s business.”

“It’s more as a favor to Tiana,” said Jonquil, softening. “She’s too soft for her own good.”

“Judith? Soft?” Theo laughed. “She would be furious if she heard you say that, Joni. Watch it.”

“You know, she’s not some wild twenty something anymore,” said Jonquil. “She’s mellowed in her age.”

“Or maybe she’s softened to you, old friend. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“And how is the business of the Danan family drama?”

“I could go on for hours about it,” said Theo with a smile. “My mother is retired, my sisters are always bickering over something, my aunties and uncles claim they’re disgracing the family with their horrible behavior in public, since last winter my oldest sister wrote a piece about how my younger one is unfit to rule--” Jonquil snorted-- “and my father is forced to live with all of this chaos and my nieces and nephews, all in one big estate, running amok. But we still find time to drink together, so it can’t be too bad. If we aren’t fighting and arguing with each other, I would think we hated one another. Love is a good argument, hm?”

This sounded antonymous to Lorenz’s world-- the delicate tea ceremonies and closed door treachery. To air one’s grievances so loudly, with such passion, and forgive one another at the end of the day-- was that the life his mother had lived? He had never thought about how different her experiences must have been.

“Then all is well,” said Jonquil, walking up the steps to the Daphnel townhome and opening the door. “Get in here. Judith,” she called, “get the tea kettle going.”

“Is she here?” said Judith, walking down the stairs in trousers and a half-buttoned shirt. “Theo.”

Theophania didn’t hesitate to hug Judith, who was taken aback and stiff, but reluctantly gave in. “Your wife told me you were soft,” said Theo, and Judith pouted for a moment before hugging her.

“She gets a pass,” said Judith. “I’m going to go make tea. Ginger?” she said.

“Ginger,” agreed Theo. “Seasickness. Lorrie, I can take my luggage up.”

“I would have assumed you were staying at the Gloucester townhome,” he said, hesitating as he disenchanted the trunk.

“I...I would like to,” she said, hesitant, “but I don’t think it’s safe right now for me.”

“Mother,” he said softly, pulling her aside, “do you truly believe you’re in such peril that you cannot sleep in a home that was once your own?”

“Yes.” She met his eyes, hard and sharp. “I know I am.”

He sighed, hesitant and cautious. “Then I suppose it’s better that you don’t stay where they may expect that you would be, or that you’re monitored. I would hate to put you in more danger than necessary.”

“If you’d like to stay with us,” called Jonquil, “you can, Lorenz.”

“It is perfectly alright,” said Lorenz. “I don’t mind staying in the Gloucester house.”

“Just know the invitation is open,” said Jonquil. “Come on, let’s sit down, Judith has tea and heaps of sweets, let’s go to the sunroom.”

“When did you get a cat?” said Theo, opening the sunroom door and seeing the little gray cat on its perch.

“A while back. I thought it would be good for Judith,” said Jonquil with a sweet smile. “Bad dreams and such. They say cats chase them away.”

“Does she know she’s lucky to have you?” said Theo.

“Every day, she makes sure to remind me,” called Judith as she carried out the tray, and Theo laughed.

“So. Lorenz, my prince,” she said, sitting down on the couch, “you have to tell me everything that I’ve missed. Everything good.”

Lorenz sat down beside her, and Judith poured him a cup of tea, then sat on the bench beside the far window, clearly thinking and off in her own world.

“Only the good things?”

“Only the good things,” said his mother.

“I…” He paused. Where was he to begin? “Aunt Andrea had her first child a year after you left. She’s a very sweet little girl. And she has a son now, too. I find that they’re quite precious. Even Father likes them quite a bit. I continued my piano lessons,” he said, “to a point, and I performed excellently in the Royal Academy of Sorcery. I had my beautillion, which was rather important, and then at Garreg Mach, I made a great many friends.”

“I don’t need a laundry list of your achievements, Lorrie,” she said with a grin. “How are the good things? The stray cats behind the estate are still well fed? And how about the roses? I remember you used to love writing poetry as a little boy, do you still like it? Have you made any partners or relationships?”

“The cats are fine,” said Lorenz, “and the rose garden still stands even without your care. I still write poetry,” he admitted, “but I find myself increasingly unsatisfied with it, if I am to be frank. And that question is impossible to answer, and I simply shall not.”

“So there is one that you care for, isn’t there?” She smiled. “You’re as bad at hiding your feelings as your father is.”

“You are cruel, Mother,” said Lorenz with mock coldness, “and I will not answer.”

“Fine, fine,” she said. “Tell me about your friends, then.”

“Where to begin,” he said. “I suppose Marianne and Ignatz are a start. Ignatz is a splendid artist, and quite clever and quick eyed, though he must one day overcome his nerves. Marianne, similarly, is quite nervous, but a very pious, goodhearted woman, and as smart as she is patient. Both of them are great helps to me, and quite dear. Leonie is a common woman, but as sharp as a whip, capable and resourceful and quite admirable, and she and Leonie are quite close. Hilda Goneril is perhaps the most pampered girl I have ever met, but it does not change that she is, at the very least, capable. Raphael is truly a gem, his heart is quite large and although he’s physically very strong, it is that singular goodness that outshines everyone. Lysithea von Ordelia-- I believe you know her parents, yes?”

“Helene,” agreed Theo.

“Yes, she’s possibly the smartest person I have ever had the honor of meeting. The greatest mage of our generation, and I do not say such things lightly. And,” he hesitated, “Lysithea is very dear to me, as a younger sister.”

“You speak so highly of everyone,” said his mother. “I can only really be glad that you made friends. You grew up quite alone, which I still feel quite sorry about, and knowing that you made friends now, well...It warms my heart.” She paused. “You know, I know the Duke’s heir is in your class. Did you ever think about him, really? You must be friends.”

Lorenz’s life flashed before his eyes. The incident with Claude was still fresh in his mind, and he had come quite close to a confession of a very different nature while still somehow upholding his prickly politeness, and he felt quite bad for the way things had gone. All the while that his mother asked, the incident passed before his eyes. Rain. Streetlights. That crack in Claude’s voice.

“Something similar to friends,” agreed Lorenz. “I think highly of him, in spite of circumstances.”

“Do you mean that old grudge?” His mother rolled her eyes. “Lorenz, please tell me--”

“I like Claude. I have no intent of carrying on my father’s grudges.” He stopped. “Can we talk about something else please? I have been quite curious about magical methodology in Dagda.”

“I suppose you can’t find texts on it here,” she said, a little hushed. “Maybe I’ll teach you during my stay. It’s quite different from Fodlan magic.”

“Is there any time that we can talk about why you think you may be in such peril? Or-- there is a great deal for me to explain to you.”

“Tomorrow.” She slouched. “Today, I am tired, and I would like to spend the rest of the evening with my son, and my friends, and for once, feel some peace knowing that you’re safe. Tomorrow. I had planned on it, anyways. I promise.”

“Thank you,” said Lorenz. “You must know how dearly your company has been missed. I want to hear all about your-- no, rather, our family. My grandmother, what does she do? Why is her retirement of such great importance?”

“Your father never told you?” Theo stifled a laugh. “The Danans, we’ve been, for generations, the military advisors to the Dagdan parliament. My mother was the chiefest military advisor for all of Dagda.”

“You must be joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?” she said. “No, your grandmother retired and my older sister has been vying for her position over my younger one, and the both have made a great deal of trouble over it together. This was the perfect time to get out of the house,” she said with a smile.

“Why would you not simply take the position as your own?” suggested Lorenz.

“I don’t want it,” said Theo. “My mother kept us out of war for a very long time, and I’m not confident that I have her diplomatic skills off of paper. I think the position would drive me mad, frankly. I’ll let your aunts fight over it.”

“Is that why you married my father?” said Lorenz. Judith turned to glance at him, almost as if she, too, was curious.

“It’s more complicated than that.” She pushed her long, black hair behind her ears.

The remainder of the day was spent lazy, in the sunroom. Judith and the little cat came in and out as they pleased, and at times, would return with snacks. Jonquil had pulled out a pad of paper, and gotten to sketching, half listening and half minding her work. His mother told grandiose stories of her family. His grandmother had once been known for her battlefield prowess and talent, when she was younger and Dagda had run into internal strife, and had become a staunch advocate of peace. His aunts were both capable-- the eldest was shrewd and keen eyed, and physically imposing, his younger warm and intellectual, with a soft heart-- and both had full families, and they all lived together. His grandfather was a gentle, quiet man who had taught his daughter Tifara how to garden, how to appreciate the wind as it came down the mountains and valleys, and the songs-- and he was a mage. She told him that in Dagda, magecraft was a craft of names, of numbers-- not prayers or the arcane, but a science, and he was immediately intrigued. The whole afternoon, on one sofa, watching spring rain fall-- and it was paradise. A single afternoon, perfect. And their dinner was the finest meal he had ever eaten, no matter how plain Judith insisted it was. The moon rose, the night turned chill, the fire was lit, and he returned to the Gloucester townhome, his heart warm as if it had laid in the sun a whole day. He grabbed the logs for his bedroom fireplace from the box behind the house, left his coat on the peg, abandoned his boots, and was about to get into the bath-- when a rap sounded on his door. Whoever it was, kept knocking-- desperately.

He put his proper jacket back over his shoulder, leaving it loose over his left shoulder in its sling, and opened the door.

“Claude?” Lorenz stared, mouth agape. “What could be so urgent this time of night? Come in,” he said, opening the door.

“I don’t have time.” He was soaked with rain, but even Lorenz could see he was frantic, maybe even sorrowful. Sorrowful?

“What could possibly be wrong?” said Lorenz, fresh off the high of a whole day spent happy for a change.

“My grandfather,” said Claude. “He’s dead.”


	19. Ch. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> surprise bitch i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me

“Dead.” Lorenz repeated it, trying to taste the word, as if it was a salt to bring tears to one’s eyes, or an acid that would sour his face, but so surprised was he, that it felt like nothing.

“He was ill,” said Claude, “but nobody thought it was this grave until early yesterday, and even then, he had fallen ill and recovered before so many times-- it just--”

“I understand.” Lorenz reached down and grabbed his walking shoes. “Do you want me to help?” He was rather familiar with mourning rituals, having helped his father attend to his aunt and uncle after Andrea’s mother-in-law had passed just the year before.

“I don’t know,” said Claude. “I-- I think I can deal with it alone.” But I don’t want to be alone right now, thought Lorenz, as if he could tell, and Claude didn’t need to say it.

“Of course.” Lorenz tied the laces of his shoes, and slid his jacket all the way over his shoulder. He reached for one of the paper slips that went into the door, and scrawled one for the Daphnels and his mother, leaving it half into the slot, and set off, side by side with Claude.

They were quiet, even the moisture of early spring having been bled out of the air in the rain during the afternoon, leaving a sticky chill in the air. There was a quiet hope that this was an elaborate joke on Claude’s part, but nothing could keep Claude this quiet if it was a joke. He’d seen his pranks; he liked to chatter, to talk to distract people from his tricks and games-- it was the way Claude was, to create illusions and keep people from the difficult parts of the truth. But this was not like that. This was not the Claude who would ambush Hubert von Vestra from the bushes, this was not the Claude von Riegan who snuck out of the infirmary to see the sunrise, this was not the Claude who fell into a creek and pulled Lorenz in by his side with a laugh. This was not like that at all.

The Riegan estate was not the largest of the Alliance estates; that honor supposedly went to the Goneril’s huge alpine fortress and the ancient stronghold of the Daphnel house was a close second. Yet it was the largest manor house of them all, tightly confined to its plastered walls and gates, with little in the way of courtyards. It loomed over the entirety of upper Derdriu, its shadow over the piers and townhouses alike, and Lorenz could only remember a handful of times that he had been inside. Its walls were of the light, sandy cliff limestone that most of the Derdriu manors and townhomes were made of, favored by merchants and nobility alike-- but primarily because of the legacy carried by the Riegan manor. Its roof was tiled in black ceramic, its roof high and peaked like mountains and spires, and it was overgrown with flora, climbing and ascending the walls, columns, and windows. He remembered once hearing that it had been by an Almyran general who had taken Derdriu and had wanted to emulate the local architecture many hundred years ago, and even after another Riegan had besieged the city and claimed it as his own, the Riegan estate had been left standing-- indestructible, beautiful, and so firmly embedded in the city’s consciousness that it would feel bare without it. Claude walked them around the back, unlatching one of the iron gates, and through the back door, into the kitchen-- it was huge, thought Lorenz. Of course it was huge, the Riegan house was monstrous and labyrinthine, and he had been quite afraid as a little boy when he’d come that he would be forever lost-- and Claude strode leisurely through it like it was the dormitories!

“Are we going to--”

“His room,” said Claude. “Nobody else in my family is here to keep vigil with him.”

“I didn’t know him very well.” Lorenz hesitated. He felt like he shouldn’t have been there.

“He’s dead, Lorenz.” Claude turned around on the stairwell, the moon outside the window the only light. “I don’t think he cares.”

“Right.” Lorenz cleared his throat. That was...not incorrect. Lorenz tailed behind Claude, aching and a little winded, but at the very top of the stairs was a broad pair of doors, and Claude opened one a crack, peeking in. The room was still lit, candles suspended in the air by some spell.

“Who enchanted these?” said Lorenz, floating one in his hand.

“My grandpa. That’s part of why I wanted you to come. I can’t just leave them burning all night. Someone’s got to disenchant them.” Claude pulled up a chair beside the ocean of a four poster bed, and rested his elbow on his knee.

“I...suppose, yes,” said Lorenz, who knew better than to believe that wholeheartedly. “One day you ought to learn at least a bit of magic. It’s a rather practical skill, you know.” Claude waved his hand dismissively as Lorenz reached for a stool to bring the highest ones down.

“Eh. I don’t think I’m the kind of person who’d get much out of it.”

“You’re plenty clever,” said Lorenz. “Smarter than I am, even. Why shouldn’t you learn magic?”

Claude didn’t answer, and Lorenz kept his gaze averted from where he knew the Duke Riegan lay. Finally, each candle had been left alight, but brought down from its heavenly seat, and Lorenz put them in the lanterns around the room, and sat in the armchair near the bed, finally able to stomach looking at Oswald von Riegan.

He didn’t look quite dead. He looked closer to asleep. His death had to have been, then, less than a few hours ago-- he remembered the way Andrea’s mother in-law looked-- waxy, pale, as if the earth was trying to pull her down. Oswald looked like Lorenz remembered him at his beautillion. He had once been a very handsome man, and even in his advanced age, bore some of that twinkle and dignity, and though his eyes were most of the way closed, he swore the green light was still in them. He was a square jawed, broad man, but barely weightier than paunchy, and spots of age clung to his face and neck. He was in a nightshirt. His hair, still a dark, mottled gray, had not yet gone white, and now, it seemed, never would. But he had been sick in his late years, thought Lorenz-- and it showed in the bruisey circles under his eyes that he remembered well from his life, too. This was a tired man. And Claude looked at him like he was trying to understand something he never might.

“You know,” said Lorenz, breaking the still silence, “I met him when I was very little. I thought he was terrifying. My father talked about him like he was larger than life. We visited here, for a month, before my own grandfather died. And when I met your grandfather for the first time, I hid behind my mother as if her skirt could save me. And would you like to know what your grandfather did?”

Claude’s green eyes looked up at Lorenz.

“A magic trick. He turned one of my marbles into a ruby. I still have it.”

That brought a bit of a smile to Claude’s face. “He was pretty good with kids. My mom used to say her and her brother were spoiled, and she would bring me up to visit him every few summers, but I think he just had a soft spot for kids. He had his good moments.”

“At the end, what was it like?” Lorenz bit his tongue.

“He was always sick. It’s not the rest of the Alliance’s business, you know? You can’t go around telling the whole school your grandfather is wasting away. There’s a point where he had more bad days than good, and I thought about moving back. But towards the end… I think he had a lot of regrets.”

“When?”

“Pegasus moon, I think, was when he wrote to me and I knew it was bad. Sometimes you just know.”

“What had he said that gave you that impression?”

“He apologized a lot. I think he thought he was going to die then.” Claude paused. “He had a lot to apologize for, though. Things were always complicated with my family.”

“If it has to do with your uncle-- I’m sorry.”

“My uncle was the only sane voice in our family, actually,” said Claude. “Godfrey kept things afloat. My mother and my grandfather were the two stubborn ones. Always a fight, you know? That’s one of the things about the old man. Always a fight in him.” He glanced back at the body. “Except now.”

“That is demented, Claude. His soul could be up with the Goddess now.”

“You don’t have to pretend to believe in that in front of me,” said Claude. “I know you don’t.”

“Be sensible.”

“But you know you don’t, too.”

“For his sake, I think I ought to be respectful, then.”

“Lorenz, I don’t think it matters at this point. He’s dead. Now, I don’t know what you believe in, but where I’m from, that means they’re gone. They’re not here in this world anymore. Mourning rituals are for the living. And right now, you and I are the only ones here.”

“Fine.” He scowled. This was very different from helping his aunt keep vigil over her mother in-law. “Where-- where exactly are you from?”

Claude stared at Lorenz. “Very funny.”

“I am afraid I’m not laughing. Are you not from Leicester? I recognized your mother’s name when mentioned by--” and he swiftly dodged any mention of his mother-- “Judith von Daphnel, but she failed to extrapolate, and she is a menacing woman to ask questions of.”

“You’re not joking?”

“I don’t kid often.”

Claude snorted at that. “I can’t believe it. You...you genuinely didn’t know.” He stared for a second. “My father is the king of Almyra. I’m the prince heir of Almyra. And my mother is the queen of Almyra.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

Lorenz had failed to consider that. He sat there, lips pursed tightly, trying to piece together the last year. Claude was the crown prince of Almyra. Claude had left his world behind to stand beside his grandfather for a moment. Claude had a little sister and a mother and a father. Claude loved his grandfather, but it was a complicated kind of love. He didn’t trust the Church and he didn’t trust most people at all, and he especially didn’t trust most of their political companions. And suddenly, Lorenz was facing the reality that he didn’t know Claude von Riegan at all-- but he knew him better than almost anyone else did, too.

“You know, he got along well with my father.” Claude leaned forward. “It was my mother he fought with. She was always fiercely independent. She wanted to tell Fodlan the truth, open the floodgates, mend the divide.” He paused. “I think my grandfather thought I could do it. But in any case, she’s going to be heartbroken.”

“You’re going to have to send a wyvern, won’t you?”

Claude nodded. “My father won’t come, but I think my mother will quietly. Probably my sister, too.”

“Of course,” said Lorenz quietly. “It sounds like a very heavy burden, Claude. All of it.”

“I can handle it.” He sighed. “You’re going to have to help me with the funeral. I’m supposed to be in charge of it. I don’t think I’ve been to a funeral here since…”

“Right.” Lorenz awkwardly grimaced. “You need not say it.”

“Yeah. So tomorrow morning, that’s where we begin.”

“I see.” Lorenz rose to his feet. “I’m going to go make some tea. Would you care for anything?”

Claude sighed. “Tea would really do it right now.”

Lorenz smiled and rose, and walked the marathon back down to the kitchen, dreading doing it again with a tea tray-- but he loved making tea, and he wouldn’t ask Claude now to leave his grandfather. He set the kettle on, rummaged for some tea suitably fragrant, earthy, and sweet to mellow nerves and comfort grief, and had it prepared, along with some buttered bread he’d spied on the counter and had decided was certainly a good idea to bring. Then, on one of the wooden trays, he carried it all up.

He pushed the door open with his back, and set the tray down.

“Thanks,” said Claude, pouring himself a cup, silently staring as the candles flickered on the face of his grandfather. Lorenz poured himself a cup, not sure where to take the conversation. He raised the cup to his lips, lost in his own distracted thoughts, when he looked up at Claude again a few seconds later.

He was crying.

Lorenz had never seen him cry. He set down his cup, and stood, putting a comforting hand on Claude’s shoulder. He gently took the teacup from him, to try to ensure it wouldn’t spill, and set it aside, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he knelt beside the stool where Claude sat. He put his arm over Claude’s shoulder, slowly rubbing the opposite side as Claude let his tears out. Eventually, he was finished-- but Lorenz stayed by his side. It wasn’t quite out of obligation, he thought. Sympathy, maybe, he supposed. Eventually, he returned to the armchair where he had sat before, and Claude kept his watch, as far as Lorenz knew, all night. Lorenz dozed off after a few hours. When he woke up the next morning, there was a blanket laid over him.

A damper laid over all of Derdriu for the next few months.

Lorenz walked Claude through the motions of contacting those of importance and public, pre-funerary rites, braced him for the many discussions with priests that he would have to deal with, and for three days, the two of them were the only residents of the Riegan estate. After informing his mother, Jonquil, and Judith, they agreed that it was best that he stay there-- that there be someone present. Outside of business, however, he didn’t see much of Claude during that time; he lent him his space and privacy, and kept mostly to the guest room where he was staying.

On the third evening, Tiana von Riegan, and her daughter, Mahin, came by wyvern. He had no idea what he had expected from Tiana, but it certainly wasn’t what she was. Scarred, muscular, and powerfully built, she looked more like a warrior than like a queen, and her chestnut brown hair was long, bushy, and hastily kept, if at all. Claude greeted her with an open embrace and she looked mournful as they came.

“You’re Matthias’s son?” she said, looking Lorenz up and down, and then breaking into a smile. “Last time I saw you, you were still pink out of your mother.” That comment once again made him feel far more like a child than a grown man, but he had found that many of his parents’ friends made him feel such a way.

By Tiana’s side was a girl who looked quite like Claude, but her eyes were a dark brown, and her hair was a touch lighter. She looked skittish as a deer, and at least three years younger than Claude, and far less rough than her mother was. Claude introduced her on her behalf and she quietly had offered her hand, and Lorenz found that she did, in fact, seem very much like the kind of girl who would have used her beloved older brother for medicine practice. He liked her.

The third day, came the funeral. Lorenz had emerged from his guest suite that morning to the entirety of the Round Table, including his father, standing in the foyer, and had nearly keeled over on the spot. He recognized everyone, of course, from having spent dinner parties with them over the years, but it was another thing to face them all after having just rinsed his mouth and changed out of his dressing gown-- and especially after having befriended all of their children.

It was, perhaps strangely, as his father was in the room, Helene von Ordelia he saw first. The woman was such a stark contrast to her daughter that he never would’ve recognized her on that basis, had he not met her before. Helene had fat orange curled locks of hair that seemed to bounce with each tilt of her head, bright as marigolds, and deep maroon eyes. She had a sweet face, and was a very pretty woman with rosy cheeks and a short stature, and she wore her mourning garb appropriately, though her outer appearance so horribly clashed with it that it gave him whiplash. She spoke the loudest, with the clearest, silveriest voice of them all. 

Next was Garek Valerius Goneril, a man he knew only distantly, possibly least of all the members, but he was a loud man with a booming voice, square shoulders, a round face and slightly upturned nose (not unlike his daughter), and light pink hair, streaked with the white of age, that he had combed back. He had come in dark armor-- as if there was a fight to be had in Derdriu that would not be fought over a table. The look in his eye was that of a man who was not here because of his intelligence, but because of his contributions militarily. But Lorenz was smarter than to underestimate the man. He wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate Hilda, and he wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate her father, either.

Last was Elmar von Edmund. This was who Lorenz had heard his father was closest to; the lady Ordelia owed him, the duke Goneril was under his influence, but von Edmund was an equal in his father’s eyes. This was more frightening. Elmar had a nearly mousy face and a pronounced nose, though he was yet unwrinkled, and grey eyes. His hair was a dark blue tied at his shoulders, silky and ungrayed, and he looked quite ordinary. Ordinary-- he would have blended into a crowd had he not been wearing modest black finery. Lorenz had heard his voice the last time he’d seen him, but scarcely. It was soft, quiet, and that lent it a certain gravity when he spoke. He knew the man was of no blood relation to Marianne-- but he could certainly imagine that facets of her had been influenced by him.

And there was his father, who glanced up at him like nothing was wrong, like he knew his son was supposed to be here, then, and smiled at him. Lorenz’s skin crawled at that, yet he got the message loud and clear. Nobody was to know that there was discord in paradise. His mother, he thought-- she would have had something to say on this matter. And yet he stood by his father’s side, waiting for Claude to make his appearance, as if he hadn’t been handling the situation with him for three days. What a strange way to say that he was burying a dear friend’s grandfather, thought Lorenz-- handling a situation.

“What an occasion,” said his father, clapping his shoulder over his back.

“It is.” Lorenz glanced daggers at him, and disengaged entirely from him, hanging back at the edge of the room. 

Soon, the funerary procession would begin-- Oswald was already at the family burial crypt of the Riegan family, but the procession was a different affair altogether; his surviving family would carry candles, flowers, and food offerings to where he would lay in repose. Then, the remaining members of the Round Table would lay offerings, and then friends of the family. Lorenz fell into the final category, though he had helped arrange the entire affair. He followed at the end. Judith von Daphnel and Jonquil von Daphnel followed him, carrying their little candles, sheltering them in cupped hands from the cold of spring rain as they approached the entry to the crypt, a stone arch carved in crests and relief profiles of the first generations of the Riegan line. Along the walls were the remains of fifty generations, maybe more or less-- he didn’t know. But it was a long journey down the crypt-- well lit, maybe, but a long journey.

He could feel them looking at him. What was it, he thought? Was it the guilt he felt even now for the actions of his father, or was it that truly, something in his body now resonated with the Riegan crest and its physical traces here? That thought scared him even then. To be called-- to be physically, without any modicum of autonomy, pulled to something so alien, that he could never have-- it made him feel ill. But he kept his head down on his candle, and kept walking-- and at long last, it was lit on one of the many paper lanterns that filled the crypt room where the more recently passed were laid. Godfrey, shrouded and tucked into a corner, was a few feet away from his father, who laid on the stone slab in the center. He couldn’t help but think of him, naturally, and lingered a moment. Each guest that passed was wishing Claude well, and Lorenz wouldn’t intercede now, so he paid Oswald proper honors, spent a few moments close to Godfrey, and left, alone.

His father had disappeared like a phantom-- Lorenz could guess that he had lingered for the closed-door meeting that came afterwards, and was staying at the Gloucester townhome for a few nights before he headed back. There was something to be said for a man that could know when he wasn’t wanted, thought Lorenz-- and once again, he felt sorry for his father. How lonely his world must have been, he thought. Lorenz would stay, then, at the Daphnel’s until he was certain his father had left, since he didn’t want to overstay his welcome with Claude in such a period, and that was that. He wasn’t welcome at the Round Table’s delegations afterwards. So he headed to the guest suite where he was staying, and began gathering his things.

“Knock knock,” said Claude, tapping on the open door. 

“You startled me,” said Lorenz, folding a shirt and setting it into his small packed case. “How goes it, then?”

“As long as there’s a Riegan in Derdriu, there’s a Riegan on the Round Table. They’re not getting rid of us.” Claude leaned against the door. “So I’m officially the Duke Riegan now.”

“Congratulations,” said Lorenz. “The circumstances cannot be pleasant, but it is in its own way something worth congratulations.” He paused. “How do you intend to reconcile this with your other responsibility?”

“That’s for me to figure out,” said Claude. “I’m not too worried about it, either. If worse comes to worse, I know plenty of people capable of picking up the slack around here in Leicester.”

“Right, right,” said Lorenz. “Will you be returning, then?”

“Nah.” Claude shrugged. “I’ll be holding down the fort around here for a while. With things as they are, it wouldn’t exactly be responsible to up and leave as my first course of action, right?”

“I suppose not.” Lorenz pursed his lips. “I shall, of course, in time return to Gloucester.”

“Listen, I’m not going to pretend to know what’s happening with that-- but are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“I have a few months to smooth such matters down. I’ll be in Derdriu for the foreseeable season, at the very least.”

“What’s keeping you here?” said Claude, casually.

“My mother.” Lorenz smiled, ever faintly. “She arrived the very morning that your grandfather died.”

“All the way from Dagda,” said Claude. “Nice. Sorry this dragged you away from her.”

“Circumstances were out of your control.”

“You can’t drop everything for other people forever, Lorenz.”

“Claude, you can’t keep minimizing your own situations.”

“Touche.” Claude sighed. “My mom will be here for another day or so. I think I’ll be spending most of my time with her and Mahin before they leave.”

“I think it wise,” agreed Lorenz. “Cherish such time, you know not when you may have it again.”

“I will.” He paused. “Thanks for the help, anyways.”

“It was the very least that I could do.” Lorenz closed his case. “Such circumstances need, at times, someone who is at the very least understanding. It is difficult work to do alone, and nobody ought to have to.”

“Yeah,” said Claude. “Just about. You should get out of here before it gets too dark.”

“That was my intention.” Lorenz grabbed his case and turned to Claude. “Thank you for having me as your guest.”

“Thank you for sticking around,” said Claude. “I was starting to miss having someone a couple doors down, you know?”

“I suppose I know the feeling,”

“Well…” Claude paused. “For as long as we’re both here, we ought to see each other now and then.”

“I’m inclined to agree, yes.”

“So drop in, I guess. It’s going to be pretty quiet around here”

“I shall.” Lorenz hesitantly offered out a hand to shake. Claude took his hand, and hugged him, close for a moment before parting. “Goodbye, Claude.”

“Bye, Lorenz,” he said, waving. Lorenz left out the back gate.

The walk to the Daphnels was dim, lit by the streetlamps and the remainder of the early evening sun. It was an unpleasantly damp day, he thought, but he didn’t suppose there was any real fixing that. Something heavy hung over the entirety of Derdriu. He wouldn’t name it a dirge, yet-- but it was like one, he thought, as if all the music had stopped for a night. The Daphnels were inside-- the lights were on. But he stopped in the street and glanced down the block to the Gloucester townhome.

His father was there. He’d lit the lights in his study, in his solitude. He must have been working or sleeping in there, perhaps-- at times he had slept in his study at the estate. But he was there. For a moment, Lorenz felt again that twist of guilt and pity-- but his father’s isolation was made by his own devices. He had designed it and was now eating its fruit. And Lorenz could mourn that for him, but he would not deign to return to him. Not on these terms.

He opened the door to the Daphnel townhome. It smelled of something baking inside, was lit warmly, and he could hear his mother’s laughter inside.

“You’re back,” she said with a smile. “I was beginning to think you’d change your name and start calling yourself Riegan, my little prince. Sit, sit,” she said, “you must be tired.” She’d taken to fussing over him-- and although it was a little embarrassing, he also was grateful that his mother cared and that someone would notice when he was in a bad spell.

“I wouldn’t do such a silly thing,” said Lorenz, stretching his shoulders and taking off his jacket. “Judith, will I be sleeping on the sofa for now?”

“We’ve got two guest rooms, you know,” she said from the kitchen. “Not hungry?”

“Not particularly. I need some rest.” He sighed, and his mother looked at him worriedly, but didn’t say a word. “Tomorrow, mama, can we talk? There’s important matters at hand.”

She chewed her lip for a moment. “Right. Tomorrow, we talk.”

“For now,” said Lorenz, “I’m turning in for the night.” He kissed the top of his mother’s head, and waved to Jonquil and Judith, then climbed up to the second guest bedroom, where he laid, staring at the ceiling. He could overhear them.

They were talking about him. And his father, and the Riegans, and the worries they all had-- but his mother seemed especially worried about him.

And that, he thought, in a sorry sort of way, was a little comforting.


	20. Ch. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw for mention briefly of miscarriage towards the middle of the chapter

Lorenz awoke the next morning after the funeral almost surprised he was not in his own bed, before he remembered— his father was in the Gloucester town home, so he was staying here until Matthias left. He didn’t think his father knew that his mother was here, either, and he would be avoiding him lest word be let slip. He stayed in bed for a few minutes. He ached. Was it that the Riegans were so near at hand, that he had spent yesterday and the days before in their ancient homes and post-mortem respite? Had they called to him? Or was it some twist of fate that he felt ill now by sheer coincidence? He did not want to believe in either option, but would deny neither. How cruel it was that the crest of Riegan was one of mending and self preservation, and it seemed to so deny him even a moment of rest and comfort. He couldn’t help but be bitter-tempered about that matter. It was cold. It was humid. And his bones protested to any movement, really— whether he tried to tug the blanket closer and his arms felt as though they had been bruised entirely, or he forced himself to sit up and his back and shoulders ached horribly. He sighed. He couldn’t stay in bed all day. He would have, of course, if he could have. But he needed to get up, at the very least, if he would simply dress and stay in the sunroom all day. It was warmer down there, anyways, he thought, reluctantly swinging his legs over the side of the bed and putting on his slippers. He clutched the handrails as he descended the narrow staircase, and almost bumped face first into his mother.

“Good morning,” she said, putting out a hand to stop him from teetering over. “I was just heading up to wake you. It’s nearly noon.”

“Noon?” Lorenz groaned. “Wonderful. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” she said, turning around. “I just needed to know how much breakfast to save. Did you sleep alright? You didn’t eat last night, you must be starving,” she said, at the bottom of the flight of stairs.

“My eyes remained shut through the night, so I find that I can’t complain,” he said, glancing longingly at the couch. “I am not particularly hungry.”

“You have to eat.” She reached up and fixed his mussed hair. “Are you feeling alright? You’re feverish.”

“Am I now?” He sighed. “I suppose that makes sense, of course. I’m rather stiff and sore, and a fever is the typical accompaniment thereof. I must not have noticed.”

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll just bring you breakfast.”

“Where are Judith and Jonquil?”

“They’re visiting the Riegans. They just left half an hour ago.”

“All of the Riegans.” Lorenz hesitated. “Tiana and Mahin included?”

“Yes, both of them as well,” she agreed. “It’s been a long time since I saw Tiana.”

“How long?” asked Lorenz, curiosity now piqued.

“I believe Tiana left right after you were born— that would mean nineteen years and some change.” She paused. “I was never too close with Tiana. She and I are very different people, and the matters of family politics never gave us much room to grow close. We had mutual friends, though. Judith and Jonquil among them.” She sighed. “Do you at least want some tea?”

“I would take tea, yes,” said Lorenz. “Do they have any bergamot?”

“Bergamot?” She squinted at him. “You used to hate bergamot.”

“When I was twelve,” said Lorenz, “yes. It’s bitter. I think it quite nice now, though.”

“Hm.” She turned and headed to the kitchen, putting on the kettle and then leaning against the doorframe. She wore what he assumed was a dressing gown; he wasn’t familiar with Dagdan clothing but it seemed simpler than what she’d worn for the last few days. “So you like bergamot now. What else have you started liking? Mushrooms? Celery?”

“Well…yes,” said Lorenz, smiling. It was odd; his mother still seemed to think of him as a little boy no matter how she had taken him seriously before. “Yes, I don’t eat much, but I don’t despise mushrooms any longer.”

“Mhm.” She paused, thinking. “You sure you don’t want breakfast? Is there anything you want?”

“Just tea.” He reached for one of the blankets and pulled it over his shoulder. “I left my medications at the townhouse, in my room.” He sighed. “Maybe I’ll make myself a breakfast later.”

“I know you probably don’t particularly care to talk about it,” admitted his mother, “but I worry. I worry about how you’re doing. I worry about what’s happened. I’m your mother. I’ve been worried since I found out you were alive. Do you mind if I ask questions?”

“I… I must confess I have inquiries of my own first. I have my reservations with telling you certain things, and I would like to be certain that you can be trusted before I tell you.” Lorenz felt guilty for even implying that he might hide information from her, let alone telling her up front, but he knew she would understand— if his mother had concealed information and darker secrets of her own, she could respect his.

“Alright.” She hesitated. “But can you at least eat something first? That’s my negotiation. Please eat.”

“That’s fine.” Lorenz wrapped the blanket around his shoulders like a cape and stood up, looking quite a bit like a crane. “I’ll find something to eat.”

“There’s bread, eggs— how do you still like them?”

“Soft boiled,” said Lorenz. “I’ll make it. It’s alright.” He reached for one of the small pots, and filled it, then began slicing bread, still tucked into the blanket.

“Bergamot?”

“Bergamot,” he nodded. She poured the two cups of tea, and left them on the counter. Lorenz picked up one and took a sip as he waited for the egg to boil. “What do they drink in Dagda?”

“Black tea,” she said, “but sometimes, fermented black tea, and leaves cured differently— one lends a greener color, and another has a more mellowed flavor. There’s a lot of ways to drink tea.” She smiled as she sipped from the steaming cup. “But I think we drink it a little more often in Dagda.”

“I wish you had brought some,” said Lorenz. “I’ll try any sort of tea, really.”

“I wish I’d known.” She leaned against the counter, the both of them shoulder to shoulder— except Lorenz was a whole foot taller than his mother. “I imagine you could find it at a specialty shop by the port.”

“I suppose I hadn’t even thought of that,” he admitted. “There are no import specialty stores further inland near home.”

“I know,” she said. “There used to be one shop in Derdriu, where I could find the tea my mother used to like— a little different, but the same variety, and when we used to visit, I’d always buy a little bit of it. But you certainly couldn’t find it in Gloucester.”

“I used to wonder about that.” Lorenz smiled. “When you used to make the tea on holidays, where it came from. I suppose I know now.”

“Mhm.” She took another sip. “You asked me for that recipe. Did you ever make it?”

“No.” Lorenz shook his head. “It was on… Dagdan New Year, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose, but it’s for any occasion, really. That was just when I used to feel most homesick. Maybe we should make some.”

“And leave such a mess in the poor Daphnel’s kitchen? No thank you,” said Lorenz, smiling. “Don’t think I have failed to recall how sticky it was.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” she said as Lorenz set his egg timer. “You used to love things like that.”

“I’ve grown up.” He softened a little, reaching for the butter dish and slathering some over his bread.

“It’s a hard thing to remember when I never got to see it.” She paused. “Did your father at least try to be there?”

“It’s hard to say.” Lorenz scooped the egg out of the boiling water as the timer dinged, and tapped on the rim of the shell, gutting the creamy interior and setting it atop the bread. “Things between us have been contentious of late, since I learned about the Riegans and his part in it, and his part in my…transformation. Yet although I would call him often rather discountenant, I cannot say he didn’t attempt to use his faculties as best as he knew how. I am starting to think he is a rather disheartened and lonely man, regardless of his wit and power. To me, he seems as if he long ago turned cold. The man I know now is not who I remember as a child. And I have a hard time forgiving his many hurts to us.”

“No, that sounds like him.” His mother blew on her tea. “He was always frosty. A wet blanket on a winter’s day at his worst, and at best, a spring morning.” She paused. “Except when you were very small. He loved having a little one around. Your dad likes kids.”

“I’ve noticed. He’s a natural with Andrea’s.” Lorenz hesitated, searching for the salt to top his breakfast with. “Mama,” said Lorenz, walking back to the dining table, still in the blanket, “did you love him? My father?”

“I…” She paused. “I did, eventually. When we got married, it was a rather hasty choice. I wouldn’t have used that word then. But before you were born, back when it was him and I, before either of us had responsibilities and before your father was on the Round Table, he was a very different person. Shy, maybe even meek. Sharp as a whip with magic but disorganized as they came, a terrible liar, and relentlessly curious. You know, he wanted to run away to Dagda when we met?”

“I can scarcely believe that,” said Lorenz with a smile. “He still cannot lie to save his life. It surprises me still that he has managed the Round Table the way he has.”

“You can’t lie either,” said his mother affectionately as Lorenz bit into his toast.

“Why did you marry him?” said Lorenz. “I mean it not in a trivial or romantic way, but rather to try to understand. He doesn’t talk about you anymore.”

“Oh.” Theo tilted her head, sighing. “Your grandfather and my mother were business partners for a short while. It had to do with the Adrestian Empire, as far as I recall— concerns about militarization or something of such a nature. Your father came to Dagda with his father a handful of times, back when travel was more common between the two. And we immediately disliked each other.”

“Disliked?” Lorenz smiled. “And you married him?”

“Not before he and I wrote very heated letters back and forth. He favored very different ideals than I did. He was a— well, you must understand your father had many opinions on divine right of rulership, and I believed that all respect was one that had to be won. But eventually, our arguments became discussions on the other’s well being. And your father came to Dagda to ask me to marry him. In a way, I think that argument carried through forever— but your father and I did once have that same sort of mutual love and respect. At least as a business partnership, we balanced one another out.”

“They tell us that romance died in the age of heroes,” said Lorenz sarcastically.

“Oh, come now,” she said, smiling. “He still knows my favorite flowers, I think.”

“Mama,” said Lorenz, “I think you broke his heart. He talks like you betrayed him.”

“Ironic.” She pursed her lips. “No, he betrayed me. In the last years, he wasn’t the same person anymore. Power changes people.”

“Why is it ironic, though?” Lorenz inspected her carefully, not sure if he could stomach finishing his toast, but listening intently.

“Oh. Your father and I had an agreement.” She cleared her throat. “He would protect me, if I married him. He would make no dangerous moves politically without consulting me, he would conceal that I was Dagdan, and he would keep you safe from the world of politics and warfare until I decided that you were old enough. It was a very firm agreement.”

“He didn’t hold to it.” Lorenz slumped a little. “Is that why you left?”

“Partially.” She thought about it for a moment. “There was a lot that happened in that year that was, in every way, overwhelming.”

“Do I have any right to know?”

“Lorenz, I think you do, but I can’t promise that it’s really something you would be able to stomach.”

“I am far less frail than has been impressed upon you.” He picked off a crust of toast and ate it.

“Where to begin…” She hesitated. “Godfrey von Riegan would have been when I first realized something had gone wrong. Everyone blamed your father straightaway. And I knew, because I had told him that if he went through with it, that I would have to leave.”

“But you didn’t?” Lorenz hesitated. “Not then, at least.”

“No,” she said. “Do you remember the year Godfrey von Riegan died?”

“Not very well.” Lorenz frowned. “My memory fails me when I try to recall such times. I think my mind, regardless of my will, has chosen to forget that which is the most damaging.” He paused. “It was a month later that they took me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “How to explain this timing delicately… I never spoke to your father directly about understanding this rationale, but I have some reason to believe that Godfrey’s death and your disappearance, are both connected to one other thing. I was expecting another child, and I had told him two or three months before.”

“You— you were?” Lorenz pursed his lips. “Then I suppose it may be assumed that either I have a long lost sibling, or—“

“Or it died before it was born.” She nodded. “Just a few weeks after you were taken. It wasn’t the first time it happened. It’s not uncommon.” She hesitated. “Your father was gone after that. I suspect that he conditionally proceeded with the plan in the hopes that a second child would be a viable heir if you had died.”

“I… I see.” Lorenz thought about the concept of being replaced in such a way. He was not a thing, no, he thought. He was a person. He was human. If he had died, what would such an outcome look like?

“He told me you were almost certainly dead, of course. Was it that horrible?”

“Yes.” He stopped himself. “Yes, it was. I think most of the rest of them died. There are only two others of which I know that survived the process.”

“I can’t imagine, then.” She sighed, glancing at his hair. “What was Matty thinking. Switching a dozen lives for one and some credit. It makes me wish he had ever known real consequences. That for once, things would never work out as he had planned them. I left after he simply— he simply became nothing but his work.”

“Do you know why he killed Godfrey?” said Lorenz, trying to find out whether or not his mother knew about the crests.

“No.” She shook her head. “He was an old enemy of your father’s, from even their school days. I think he supposed he could assume Riegan power, with Tiana gone and Oswald growing older, if Godfrey died without an heir. It was a well-founded assumption, I’ll admit. But that was how he had talked about it when he consulted me on the matter.”

“So your reasons for leaving were that you thought I was dead, that my father betrayed your trust, and that there was, for some reason the involvement of a potential second heir.”

“One last reason.” She paused. “It was the start of the war. Fodlan is a racist place. And I was worried that if it was let slip where I was from, or someone a little too astute noticed that I am a little different from Fodlaners, then I had every reason to worry for my safety. If I had known you were alive, even still, I would have left. I would have waited, and brought you by my side.” She sighed. “It was a handful of old friends that kept me up to date on that. Jonquil among them. But otherwise, I think that’s all I can really tell you.”

“What about Godfrey von Riegan?”

“What about him?”

“How he died. Was my father— how was the Empire involved?”

“Your father had a number of underground Imperial connections. He did as long as I knew him. I supposed that some of them were involved in his assassination to keep it from tying back to your father, but past that, I don’t know anything.” She hesitated, though.

“Does the name von Aegir mean anything to you?”

“He was a friend of your father’s,” said Theo. “Plenty of dinner parties with that nightmarish man. Do you remember him? He used to try to speak with you on magic.”

“Scarcely. I have little recollection of his appearance outside of what I can deduce from his son.”

“He was a very brusque man. Why mention him?”

“I have reason to think he is involved in certain events.”

“Must you be vague?” his mother said. “Lorrie, my dear, I have told you everything you’ve asked me. I have trusted you unconditionally. And I would be happy to be here for anything you might ask. Part of why I came is to reunite in such a way. Can I ask you a few questions now?”

“I— I can try to answer them.” He knew his mother would want to know specifics. She had always been fastidious.

“How— how bad was it? How bad has it been? Please don’t try to spare me.”

“I would never,” lied Lorenz. He wanted to shield her from it. He didn’t want her to know the horrible things, the worst things. The nightmares that came with the faces and hands of strangers. The horrible memories of the ice cold, relentless dark. The way he was treated worse than a rat, worse than an unwanted animal— the voices. Cynthia von Ordelia’s last moments. That at times, if he was in a dark enough room, or the scent of vinegar and blood hit him right, it all came flooding back. No, she didn’t need to know that. “It was nothing I can’t endure.”

“You’re not a very good liar.” She frowned at him, and stood and took his plate, laying it in the sink. “Sunroom. Come on. It’s warmer in there.”

Lorenz reluctantly followed her, and sat on the sofa, holding the blanket tighter around himself with a frown. He felt a little like a petulant child, but he couldn’t bear to tell her.

“Tell me the truth. How bad is it?” She sat down, arms crossed loosely, on the couch beside him, and gave him the stern look he remembered from their piano lessons.

And he broke down. Sobbing. He wasn’t able to hold it in around her. His mother was his mother, after all. “Oh, my Lorrie,” she said, putting her arms around him and holding him close. She smoothed her hands over his back, soothing him and trying to control the uneven breathing that came with his crying. Tears and snot were on his face, and he was sure he was a mess. He was in his nightclothes, he hadn’t brushed his hair, he was crying into his mother’s shoulder the day after what he was sure was politically the most earth shaking funeral in decades, and all he had eaten was toast and an egg. But he was still here, in his mother’s arms, and even if he was sore and achey and felt once again like perhaps he would never be able to bring to fruition any single ambition of his own— he could have a moment. And that made him cry even more. That he still had her— yes. His mother was still here. She cared for him. She missed him. And she loved him.

“I know, baby,” she said softly, humming an old Dagdan hymn she had once taught him the words to. “I know.”

“I— Mother,” he said, trying to calm down, “there are things you have to know.”

“Alright, my Lorrie,” she said, smoothing her fingers through his hair. “Alright. Tell me in your own time.”

“I have a second crest.” He dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “I know you don’t care about such things, but you must understand them. It was— it was made from the blood of another crest bearer.”

“I see.” His mother put her hands over one of his as he tried to fix himself, cleaning up. “I don’t think it takes me a great deal of effort to piece together whom. Is it the— the Riegan one?” Lorenz nodded, chin trembling. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about him?”

“Who?” said Lorenz.

“Tiana’s son. The prince.” She pushed his hair up behind his ear as he began to turn red. “Oh, baby. I— I’m so sorry.” She pulled him into another hug. “You didn’t deserve this. You deserved better parents.”

“It’s not your fault, Mama.”

“M-mm.” She shook her head. “I trusted him with you too much. I shouldn’t have. I should have stayed and protected you and kept you safe. What kind of mama runs?”

“You couldn’t have known.” He squeezed her. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

“You really are a sweet kid.” She kissed his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me anymore.”

“I want to.” He shook his head. “Mama, I think I shall not live a very long life.”

“Why’s that?” She reached up and put a hand to his forehead, checking his fever. “Still hot.”

“I think no person can have two crests for all of their life. I think that I shall be burnt away like candle wax. It feels as though I have wasted away for such a long period of time,” he said, swallowing, “that one day, there will be nothing left of me.”

“Are you certain?” she said. “My little prince, I want you to live a long, full life. I want to give you the whole world.”

“I— I can simply feel it. And the captors, they have mentioned that a shortened lifespan, however brightly it may burn, is more probable than a long one.”

“Then you and your two friends ought to stay side by side, hm?” She patted his hand. He could only imagine her thoughts— no parent ought to have seen their child die, he thought mournfully, and once again, he returned to Godfrey von Riegan. “I think you can burn brighter than anyone, my prince. My baby boy,” she said. “You had better show the whole world how brilliant you are, then.”

“It’s hard.” He gulped down tears. “The aches and the pains of this— this body that can’t hold onto a second crest, it can be so overwhelming.”

“I imagine.” She held his hand tightly. “I can only imagine. You seem to be doing so, so well even with that, though.”

“I’m proud of myself, that’s true.” He began to smile.

“Thyrsus may help— your father, he used to—“

“Thyrsus is no longer in the possession of the Gloucester line.”

Theo’s hand flew to her mouth. “What?”

“I— I lent it to a schoolmate who could make similar use of it.”

“It’s tied to the crest of Gloucester, and so far as I know this is the only viable bloodline.” She glanced at him suspiciously.

“Yes,” agreed Lorenz. “She also has a second crest. A crest of Gloucester. I think you know her mother?”

“Who?” said Theo suspiciously.

“Lysithea von Ordelia.”

Her eyes went wide, then her expression softened. “She’s— my word, she would be old enough for magic now, wouldn’t she?” His mother paused. “You gave it to her?”

“I did. She’s vastly superior in magical arts to me. I worry for her often, and I feel that it’s only correct and appropriate that I loan it to her. She shouldn’t be— she shouldn’t take the abuse of dark magic so young.”

“Lorenz,” said his mother, “you’re only a few years older than her. You’re still young.” She bit her tongue. “You’re both too young. Is she similarly changed?”

“Yes,” said Lorenz. “I still must wonder why, and what spurs the physical changes, but she has lightened hair and eyes, and is similarly frail— if not more fragile than I.”

“Maybe I ought to call on Helene.” She paused. “Helene had four children.”

“Lysithea’s siblings died.” Lorenz bit down on his tongue. “I suppose I hadn’t even considered how her poor parents might feel.”

“It’s part of growing up, my prince. You start thinking more of parents than you do of children.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll ask Judith to arrange it.”

“There was something else.” Lorenz hesitated. “The Empire— do you think, Mama, that there might be something rotten under all of Fodlan? The sort of people who steal children? The sort of people who make monsters from blood? I— I cannot help but question whether the Church has any part of this, or if there is some larger machination at work.”

“I knew it the first time I came here.” Theophania bit her tongue. “No, this place is rotten. It’s a dark place. A whole continent, kept in the shadow of the Church, at constant war— and I think about what befell Duscur often. I had friends there.” She pursed her lips. “I would be more surprised if I were to find that Fodlan was not, to its core, decaying— than I would be if it were.”

“I think that may change.” Lorenz hesitated.

“How so?” said his mother. “The Church is not going to release its grip easily. Even if the Archbishop is gone,” she said, hesitant, “I know the power the Church of Seiros has over people.”

“I simply have a feeling about it.”


	21. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short little winter piece on matthias gloucester's time at garreg mach. this is self indulgent because it's almost all ocs and nobody can stop me or hold me back anymore and you are all too far in to ever escape. be safe this holiday season! hopefully another update soon!

Matthias hated choir practice.

The Golden Deer professor had insisted that he sign up, since he was, in her words, the only boy in their class with a passable voice, and they needed to be represented outside of the circle of girls that were at the very top of the class. Just because Helene von Ordelia could beg all of her friends to sign up didn’t make it his problem. And it was especially heinous that she was dragging him away from a perfectly good snow day, to represent “the illustrious voices of the boys of the Golden Deer class” when he could have been building snow forts off the grounds. If Godfrey got to go throw snowballs at people, why didn’t Matthias? Frans von Hevring was out there now, laughing, and Matthias just knew it. He shuffled into the sanctuary, hunching his shoulders and trying to slip in the back row; he was tall, and he was a lower baritone, so they would notice he was there. Practice had already begun, he thought with a scowl, and he grabbed the sheet music out of the basket and crept up the risers.

The choir director, a portly older woman with a fast smile and a lovely soprano, smiled at him, and he pushed up his glasses and straightened up. Most of the other boys in choir were the more physical combat types; the rumor had started at the beginning of the year that it was good for breath control, whatever that meant, so Matthias already looked a bit like a twig among trees, but coming in late and having one of the deepest voices among the boys meant that when Matthias opened his mouth, at least three people turned around to look.

Judith von Daphnel particularly glared at him from the alto section, her blue eyes as icy as steel. She looked back down at her sheet music swiftly, but he could feel the cold shoulder. She wasn’t the house leader-- but she certainly whipped like she was, and Matthias knew why. If he was late, it was a demerit to their house, and that reflected poorly on Judith’s friends, Tiana, particularly-- Tiana being the leader of the Golden Deer. But Tiana didn’t care-- Tiana was at the piano, keeping the pitch (with mediocre playing skills, but some skill nonetheless) and she was having a grand time of it.

“You’re late,” said Helene von Ordelia over her shoulder from the riser beneath Matthias, her springy orange hair bouncing with the tilt of her head.

“I have a good excuse,” snipped Matthias between breaths.

“Better be,” said Helene with a chipper smile as she followed into a pitch perfect aria, and Matthias scowled at her. The truth was, he’d lost track of time and had completely forgotten he’d agreed to do the winter seasonal. So he spent the entire remainder of the practice unfocused, trying to come up with a good excuse for when Helene and Judith would certainly grill him later about it. 

The rest of the practice passed without incident. The director let them out, and all of them stopped beside the coat racks, putting on the felted wools and leathers and warm furs before they went out into the snow. The girls moved as a group, a behavior Matthias couldn’t understand for the life of him, clustered around Helene and Tiana and Jonquil, laughing-- laughing! Girls!-- he thought, exasperated. As they all tumbled out of the sanctuary and over the bridge back to the courtyards, Judith knelt and balled up a snowball, and turned, and beaned it right at Matthias. He dodged, but only barely.

“What was that for?” he called at her, pushing his glasses back up.

“You were late.” Judith knelt down and balled up another snowball, holding it in her hand.

“And?” Matthias frowned at her.

“We’re going to get a demerit, and it’ll make our house look bad. What do you think they think of us already, huh?” She tossed the snowball in the air and caught in her gloved hand.

“It’s not my fault nobody else can keep it together enough for me to be late to choir once,” said Matthias dismissively, and Judith hunked the snowball at him. “Why are you-- why are you like this?” He growled.

“Because somebody has got to keep things in line around here!” Judith said, rolling her eyes in frustration as she shoved her hands in her pockets. “When was the last time the professor gave anyone detention? You can get away with anything in our house and it makes us look bad.”

“It makes your friends look bad,” Matthias corrected her.

“Oh, shut up,” said Judith.

“Do you think Jonquil noticed this time?” he said. “You’ve been chasing her all-- ow!” Judith ribbed him.

“I said shut up.” He could tell she meant that one.

“You wanna catch up with them?” he offered.

“Fine,” said Judith, as if she couldn’t stand him-- and he was pretty sure that she couldn’t.

“You know, one day,” he said, “we’re both going to be on the Round Table, and Tiana, too, and you and I will have to get along.”

“Don’t be so smug about it,” said Judith. “Hopefully it won’t be any time soon.”

“I mean, sure,” said Matthias, whose aging father was the target of most of his ire and teenage rebellion. “I’m just saying.”

“You know what,” she said. “At least even if I’m trying to impress Jonquil, I’m trying to impress someone.”

“Did that really get under your skin?” Matthias beamed proudly as they came closer to the other three-- Jonquil, Tiana, and Helene. “Our secret, then.”

She glared at him, but as they got closer, Helene let out a loud laugh.

“Stop!” laughed Helene, “you’re making fun of me!”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious,” said Jonquil with a toothy grin. “Matthias, you’re a boy.”

“Uh huh,” said Matthias.

“Do you think Helene looks nice? I’m trying to tell her she should ask the boy she has a crush on out, and she says she’s a mess. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her.” Jonquil ruffled Helene’s hair.

“You’re very pretty,” said Matthias disinterestedly. “Helene, is it the boy who was making eyes at you in archery practice?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“If you wanted to be at his level,” said Matthias critically, “you could go roll in the mud for a few minutes. You’re too good for him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she huffed petulantly.

“What I’m hearing is a good excuse to go roll in some mud,” said Tiana. “I’m not complaining. Anyone wanna--”

“No,” said Judith. “Absolutely not. Snowball fight later, but no mud, for the Goddess’s sake.”

“Oh, come on, lighten up!” Tiana smiled. “It’s almost the weekend. Are you in with me, Jonquil?”

“Another time,” said Jonquil hesitantly. “I wanted to go skating later, actually.”

“Wonderful!” said Tiana. “Oh, I love the brisk mountain air. It never gets this cold in Derdriu, it’s so nice. And Matty’s right, you’re too good for him, Helene. Look at you! Just a flower, aren’t you! And I bet he smells like horse shit. Why’d you say she’s too good for him, Matty?”

“Because he’s failing half his classes and spends tactics practice behind the stables with… well, a couple of girls I won’t name.” Matthias shrugged.

“Oh, how’d you know that? Do all your little roommates gossip?” said Tiana in the half sarcastic, half condescending, all inquisitive tone she took at times. She was quite like the doting, smug older sister none of them had ever wanted.

“Well, he talks about it, actually,” said Matthias, who took his glasses off and wiped them on his scarf, since they were fogging up.

“You ruin everything,” sighed Helene.

“Well, I don’t think it’s Matthias’s fault that he’s such a jerk,” pointed out Jonquil, “but still. Skating! I’m going to go get my skates. Judith, do you wanna come?”

“Hm?” Her ears perked up, turning pink in the cold. “Uh, sure.” And before either of them had the chance to turn towards the dorms, a heaping blanket of snow was pushed down off one of the roof eaves, and a flash of yellow and light brown scurried away along the roof.

“Godfrey von Riegan!” shrieked Tiana, brushing snow off her coat. “You get back-- ugh! He’s such a twerp! I’m telling Dad!” she shouted, as if her anger hadn’t already turned to a grin. “Oh, I’m going to get him.”

“We can make a plan of attack over some tea?” offered Helene. “I’m cold.”

“Right, right, fine,” said Tiana. “No boys allowed. Scram, Matty.”

“I was just leaving,” he said, off to go join the merriment of the first snow with the other boys. Throw snowballs, wait for flakes to pile high enough to build forts, wander through the woods looking for deer tracks-- to see snow in the mountains was different from the plains of Gloucester, and Matthias found he liked it. This was like a home to him, he thought, catching up to Frans and Godfrey with a wave, pulling his fur coat tighter around his uniform.


	22. Ch. 19

Three days later, as sure as the sun rose in the morning, the Gloucester townhome was empty.

Lorenz caught a glimpse of his father as he left, actually. It was the smaller carriage-- he could say many things about his father, but the man was almost shockingly modest for his status-- and it was just after sunrise. He had almost wanted to see him again, speak to him again, but he knew well that the chance would come for that. This wasn’t the time.

He showed his mother all the letters he had. Theophania had spread them all out chronologically, like a timeline-- Lorenz, when he had first found them, had sorted them spatially and topically, and his mother must have thought in a different way. She’d silently pored over them, interspersing only with brief questions and a handful of remarks that added little he might not have already inferred-- and then handed them back.

“What were you going to do?” she asked quietly, helping him put them away. “This is airtight evidence that your father conspired to kill Godfrey von Riegan with Imperial officials.”

“I wanted to ensure his prosecution, and removal of his titles.”

“Would you have replaced him?” His mother looked a tad suspicious. “With what you’ve said--”

“No.” Lorenz paused. “I think I may if situations align in such a way, but I would prefer to give the title to Andrea. Her second child has a minor crest, so there is not a doubt that her claim would be recognized if I resign my own.”

“But that isn’t everything.” His mother sipped the tea he’d made earlier.

“No,” admitted Lorenz. “I wanted to spend the remainder of my political career on the Round Table. It would be more like a form of co-rule between Andrea and I, where she controls the resources and the Gloucester lands, and I am the representative of our interests.”

His mother sighed, and pushed loose black strands of curly hair out of her face.

“Did you talk to Andrea about this?”

“You know Aunt Andrea,” said Lorenz. “She idolizes my father, in a way. I’m sure, of course, that the truth shall set her free, but were I to reveal this to her now, I assume she would see it as a betrayal. However, as much as she respects my father, I think the value of his words with her is somewhat limited. She and Helene von Ordelia remain close. If Helene sides against him, I think she would trust the Round Table’s judgement before she trusted my father’s.”

“That’s a significant wager. What if she turns it down? Andrea has never been the type.” His mother took another sip of tea. “She left the estate because she didn’t want to get tangled in your father’s politics. You’d be pulling her into the eye of the storm.”

“There is nobody else to whom I can turn.”

His mother glanced at him with pity and sorrow, as if she was sorry for something she could not place, and those dark violet eyes of hers stared down at her cup. “There isn’t, is there?” His father’s line was a tangled mess-- great aunts and uncles were disowned or dead, primarily; Lorenz’s great grandfather had been tyrannical, and had raised a cold, unfeeling son for Lorenz’s grandfather, so the Gloucesters had precious little in the way of familial connections by blood that were not ancient. “What of family outside of the main lineage?”

“I suppose I didn’t tell you,” admitted Lorenz, “but Andrea is the only remainder now. Father’s Aunt Lydia died a year and a half ago. It’s really only my father, Andrea, and her children left, aside from myself.”

She sighed. “Lydia had good connections. That’s another closed door. But-- what have you got outside of blood connections? Judith? The Ordelias? How about the Gonerils, that would be a very substantial alliance to make. Prudent, if not a little-- objectionable,” she said, stumbling over the last word as if she was finding a way to politely phrase something.

“The Riegans,” said Lorenz.

“The Riegans?” His mother paused. “Your father-- of course, though, you’re not your father.” She slumped her shoulders. “Was it me who said that to you? That you ought to always be you?”

“That sounds correct,” said Lorenz, stretching his shoulders. He was still sore and had a low fever, but slowly he had mended, though it was not impossible or even uncommon for him to go through ups and downs day by day.

“But you’ve become close to them.” She paused. “You know, I have to admit I’m proud of you. More friends than enemies. That you’ve achieved something of that magnitude, that you have it in you to be a kinder person-- I’m proud of you.” She paused. “I wish I could have been there for more of your life.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I know. You’re here now.”

“But I can’t stay.” She shook her head and stood up, leaning against the window frame.

“Why do you think it’s so unsafe here?” Lorenz pursed his lips.

“I’m not unconvinced that your father wouldn’t resort to silencing me. I can’t tell you much about Godfrey von Riegan, but there are a lot of things I knew about his relationship with the Empire and his father’s ties, too, that would spell serious danger for a large portion of the Alliance and the Gloucesters. There are plenty of people who could put two and two together, and learn who I, and my family are. Tifara Danan and Theophania Gloucester are kept quite distant,” she said hesitantly, “but I know there are people sharp enough to connect two names, and considering that my mother was in command of the military during the war, I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”

“How long will you stay?” Lorenz tried not to act too disappointed. Realistically, she had responsibilities, and he couldn’t ask her to stay only for his sake.

“I wanted to be back in Dagda by the new year in mid-fall.” She softened. “But I can stay until then. Why?”

“I wanted you to be present for the proceedings against my father. I need to know how quickly I have to bring together the case.”

Her eyes went wide. She glanced at the massive book again, the heaps of paper and notes-- and he paused.

“That doesn’t sound wise.” She chewed her lip. “Your father--”

“If he tries anything, that would only cement his guilt. Judith and Jonquil would be by your side the entire time. If need be, you could even ask the Round Table for protection in advance, and I am certain that if you’re acting as a witness then they’d grant it. I know you and Helene are still friends, and I can potentially gain favor with the Gonerils. Even Margrave Edmund, if advised by his daughter, may be swayed.”

“Lorenz.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You have to understand I didn’t come here to interfere with Alliance politics. I came here to see my son and my old friends.”

“But with you, maybe-- maybe the outcome will be better assured. You were well respected, I recall.”

She shook her head, letting out a sigh as she turned to look at him. “Please. I--” She stumbled as she looked for the words. “Please don’t let politics become your entire world. Your father--”

“I’m not my father,” he interjected defensively.

“I know you’re not. But it isn’t good for anyone to devote themselves to work over their own well being. And this is going to damage your heart. Take care of yourself for some time, first.” She smoothed his hair, combing it in her fingertips.

“I worry that if I let it rest for too long then it shall never rise and never will my father see justice. Godfrey von Riegan will simply lie dead. The Ordelia children and the Kirstens will lie dead.”

“Oh, my Lorrie,” she said. “Bread must lay still to rise. It’s alright to take time.” She sat back down beside him. “Here. Get dressed,” she said, mussing his hair. “We can go see the ocean. Shop. You mentioned needing clothes, didn’t you? We can go find you something new. I wonder if that sweets shop I used to take you to is still open, the one with the saltwater taffy--”

“It is,” said Lorenz. “But I don’t favor sweets much anymore.”

“Then we can bring them to Helene,” she said. “She’s certainly got a sweet tooth.”

“Then it’s a family trait,” said Lorenz, “because I know Lysithea would love some candies, too. I would rather go to a teahouse, or perhaps a bookstore.”

“Then wherever we wish to go,” she said, “we will. Get dressed! Get up! Get going!” she said with a smile, dashing up the stairs. How she was so high energy, he didn’t understand.

“Yes ma’am,” said Lorenz, standing from his chair and heading up to the guest room. He put on the ruby-red set and ruffled blouse, with the brooch he had taken from the townhome before, the glittering pearl on red linen; spring was starting to grow warm. Hair was brushed, shoes were shined, pockets were checked, and Lorenz walked downstairs. Arm in arm with his mother, who was a whole foot shorter than he-- he walked out into the Derdriu streets, down the pavement. It was certainly something, he thought, the morning humidity barely having burnt away in the sun, and he looked up and saw not a cloud at all.

The sea breeze carried his mother’s laughter as they talked, and down by the piers, she pointed out boats-- his mother knew a great deal about boats. “The trigonal sail,” she said, pointing, “it’s of Duscur origin, but the body of that ship is weighted like one of the older Faerghan vessels. It’s for coastal sailing,” she said, her voice a clear low bell over the din of sailors and merchants calling to one another in the crowd, “and see--”

“Mother,” said Lorenz, peeking his head over the throng, “I never knew you were inclined to sailing.”

“I grew up half on the sea. I’ve always loved it out there,” she said, stretching her shoulders. “You know I thought about designing my own ships for a time but your grandmother said, Theo, that is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” She paused. “She was right, of course. That much hands-on work, and I was never very physically imposing or strong.”

“But you still sail?”

“I still sail, even for leisure,” she agreed. “Look at the hull on that beauty, my word.”

“You came all this way just to gaze at ships,” said Lorenz, almost fondly.

“There are no ports in all of Fodlan quite like Derdriu. So many things come in and out,” she said, stretching in the breeze. “It’s special. I remember the first time I was here. Your father,” she said, “he went to a great deal of trouble to keep the port as safe as he could, and I was halfway off the gunnels, throwing myself into the spray, trying to get a good look at all the other ships in the port.”

“I can see it now.” He paused. “You used to be quite well mannered and prim when I was a little boy, but I can only imagine you younger.”

“Oh, don’t say it in such a way. You have a wild streak too, and I’ve seen it. How else did you get that shoulder wound, hm?” She nudged him. It had been well enough to walk around through the day without a sling, but he still wore it at night for caution’s sake.

“Do you want to know the story?” said Lorenz, opening the door to one of the pierside bakeries. The scent of fresh bread, yeast, and sweet jam and almond and cheese and onion and rye, all at once overwhelming and lovely, flooded out, and the light streaming in the windows caught the particles of flour as they drifted through the air. It was quiet inside, as if there wasn’t a thousand people bustling about only a wall away. “Because I assure you, it comes back to Claude von Riegan.”

“Does it?” said his mother, walking inside. “You seem to be quite entangled with him, but you have barely talked about him to me.”

“Might I suggest that-- oh!” Lorenz, after having closed the door behind them, realized that among the customers, staring right at him, eyebrows raised, was Claude himself. He lived in the neighborhood, yes, and he must have needed to eat, but it had never occurred to Lorenz that he might shop.

“Hey,” said Claude, waving from the line, bakery tray in hand. Lorenz noticed poppyseed rolls among the rolls. “This is a little out of the way for you, right?”

“We were visiting the piers,” said Lorenz, clearing his throat. “So this was a wonderful place to stop and purchase a light lunch for later. Claude, might I introduce my mother to you?”

Claude’s attention immediately swerved from Lorenz to the small, elegant but inconspicuous woman by his side. His grass-green eyes sized her up as if looking for a point of comparison to her son, reading mannerisms-- and Lorenz had to admit, that although he resembled her in features, in most ways-- though her face was rounded in a way his wasn’t-- the resemblance must have been visible enough. Claude took her hand and shook it politely.

“Lady-- Danan, isn’t it?” He smiled. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Claude von Riegan. You look a great deal like your older sister.”

“She’s a bit sterner,” said Theophania, “but yes, there is a resemblance. She was in Abshuran the winter before last, you must have met?”

“She befriended my father a long time ago,” said Claude with a smile. “But you knew that.”

“Of course I did,” agreed Theophania. “Now, what was the story you were going to tell about your shoulder, Lorrie?”

“Lorrie?” Claude held in a laugh, and Lorenz twitched.

“It is no longer important,” said Lorenz, covering himself poorly.

“Nonsense,” said Claude with a big grin, “no, no, I was there, you know.”

“No!” said Theophania in mock surprise that made Claude grin.

“I like your mom,” said Claude keenly. “You know, Lorenz mentioned you a few times,” he said. “It really is a pleasure to finally meet you. Maybe after we pick up what we came in for, I could walk with you for a while?”

“That would be lovely,” said Theophania, a smile on her face. “Lorenz, what do you think? Would you share the story then?”

“I-- well, Mama, who am I to object? Were we not going to take lunch down at the beach?” Lorenz grabbed one of the bakery trays and looked around for something he knew his mother liked-- she liked spiced things, heavy herbs-- he preferred the more delicate, light things himself, but he wanted to prioritize her.

“Oh, that sounds like a great time. You sure I wouldn’t be a third wing on the wyvern?” said Claude, handing change to the baker as Lorenz picked out the last of the pastries.

“Oh, certainly not. You know, I’ve heard about you, and I know that Judith von Daphnel isn’t a warm woman, but ever since I learned about your grandfather, and I must say I’m so sorry, he was a lovely man, I couldn’t help but feel sad thinking about you all alone in that huge house.”

“It’s not that bad,” said Claude. “Lots of libraries and plenty of quiet time. But you know, I’m sure I’ll get lonely, eventually.”

“Eventually?” Theophania cracked a smile. “Well, precautionary measures and sunshine never hurt anyone. You read?”

“Plenty,” said Claude, as Lorenz paid for the pastries. “What haven’t I read? Did Lorenz not tell you that?”

“He’s marvellous at being obfuscative, my son is,” said Theophania with a smile. “It’s alright, Lorrie,” she said, taking his arm. “I think it’s an admirable attribute to be reserved.”

“Must you speak of me as if I am not arm in arm with you?” he said, glancing at his mother as they came close to the edge of the sand.

“Alright, alright,” she said, smiling. “How about that rock over there?”

“It looks perfect,” said Claude, striding over the dark sand of the Derdriu shores. “So Lorenz,” said Claude, “I’m sure you’ll do a better job of telling the story than yours truly, since it’s yours, of course-- whenever you’re ready, though.”

“Ah.” Lorenz bit the corner of his lavender bun, thinking about where to begin. “Mother, I’m sure you’re aware of the position which the whole of Fodlan is in right now. The Church, of course, was the first target of the Empire, however, and the Emperor’s first march upon Garreg Mach was, while unprecedented and rather sudden-- not unwarned.”

“I knew there was always tension between the Church and the Empire, yes,” she agreed with a nod.

“Thus, when the Imperial soldiers arrived, the handful of students that had remained at the monastery, to defend it and one another, realized we were bitterly outnumbered.”

“Why did you stay?” she asked, thoughtful.

“Garreg Mach is--” he paused. “It is, in its own ways, a second home to me. It would have been immoral, or at least thoughtless, to abandon it. That morning, we awoke to fires outside the walls, and naught could have prepared us for such a sight. I--” He stopped himself. He had almost mentioned Lysithea and Thyrsus. “I took care of some final business with Lysithea von Ordelia, and then, I rode unto the field of battle. It was horrific. Most of the Imperial soldiers were students, or at the very least, the age of students. I helped support defensive efforts, but midway through the day-- well, I know not when the battle ended, but it was around midday-- they took the last of the ballistas. I approached immediately, as I knew it was near Claude, and to lose the future Duke Riegan to an errant bolt would not do, and as I grew near, I realized that I knew the young lady at the ballista.” He swallowed, thinking of Bernadetta’s heather-purple hair and the crack of fear in her voice the last time they’d spoken during examinations. “I could not kill her. Yet the time to warn Claude had passed. So I moved quickly, and took the hit in his stead. It was quite a grievous injury,” he said softly, “but nothing the adopted daughter of Margrave Edmund, my dear friend Marianne, could not rescue me from.”

But his mother looked concerned, pausing before she bit the onion bun. “You jumped in front of a ballista bolt?” She stopped.

“It was-- it was to save Claude’s life. And the alternative would have been to kill a schoolmate. I think in my position, many would have made similar choices.”

She pursed her lips, quiet. Lorenz wished he could tell what she was thinking.

“In other news,” said Lorenz, who perceived that perhaps talking about the peril he’d narrowly escaped was not great conversation with his self-exiled mother, “it surprises me that you two have not met before.”

“Why would that surprise you?” said his mother, glancing at Claude. “The last time I visited Almyra-- well, I think your mother was pregnant with you-- which would have been just after you were born, hm?” she said, ruffling Lorenz’s hair. “Tiana invited me and my sisters. But between you and me, I don’t think she liked me much,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“My mom doesn’t like a lot of people,” said Claude dismissively. “Not really a mark on people’s character, most of the time.”

“Well, it still surprises me,” said Lorenz. “Mother, you’re very politically active.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but mostly domestically these days, and back when I was involved around Fodlan, it was usually not quite-- well, not quite related to Almyra. It simply never ended up happening.”

“And I’ve never been to Dagda,” agreed Claude. “But I’ve always wanted to. Your family still lives in Kizilkol?”

“We do,” she said. “Oh-- do you speak--”

Claude interjected with a few words in a language Lorenz didn’t understand, and Theophania laughed, and replied.

“Lorenz, I should teach you Dagdan,” she said with a smile. “Well, the broader dialect, right? Not the archaic forms from the western regions. Your grandmother still knows one of the languages her ancestors spoke out west, but it’s not widely used. It’s where my name came from,” she said with a smile.

“You know,” said Claude, “I don’t know the language, but I think one of our instructors, Shamir’s name might’ve come from--”

“Shamir? There’s a billion Shamirs,” she laughed. “But yes, it’s rooted in the same subgroup of the language. It’s a very common name, though,” she said with a smile.

“Well, maybe sometime I’ll have to visit you for diplomatic reasons and get to see Dagda, right?” said Claude. “At the very least, my father’s got friendships I should try to maintain, and you know, I do want to practice the language.”

“You’re a regular politician,” she said to Claude with a sly grin.

“Naturally,” said Claude nonchalantly.

“I would visit,” said Lorenz hesitantly, “but I don’t take well to longer sea voyages.”

“It’s a week, only,” said his mother. “And it’s smooth and along coastlines the majority of the way. Rather boring if you like the thrill of the high seas, but I think you would find it agreeable. That is, of course, if you ever get the time, Lorrie. You’re a busy man.”

“Do I detect sarcasm?” said Lorenz.

“No, no, I mean it,” said his mother with a smile. “But you’d always be welcome. Both of you!” she said, smiling at Claude.

“Well, how could I say no?” said Claude. “I know the language, Lorenz has the connections--”

“And I promise, I can teach you Dagdan,” said his mother. “Your father wouldn’t let me teach you when we were together, but I think you ought to know it.”

Lorenz paused, hesitant. “Why-- why was he so insistent that I not learn anything of Dagda for so long? You said he wanted to run away when you met. Why would he avoid such things?”

“Your father-- he thought things should remain separate, I think. I never understood it myself. That the Dagdan parts of my life ought to stay there, that the Fodlan parts of his own would have stayed there if he were to remain in Dagda. I thought it was strange and archaic, too-- this concept of meticulous separation like that. But I think in his own way, he hates Fodlan as much as I do.”

“I’ve learned that’s pretty common,” interjected Claude. “Sorry. I think a lot of people here just-- really don’t like a thing about it. The crest system, the Church, the nobility and lords and the way it’s all designed. It’s as if it’s designed to squash people’s souls.” He slumped on the rock. “But I think I’m a little biased.’

“Oh, no,” said Theophania. “I’m glad now I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

“Trust me,” said Claude, “I think it’s perfectly normal. It’s just hard to notice until you’ve spent time outside of Fodlan.”

“My, but I forgot both of you haven’t lived in Fodlan for most of your lives.” Lorenz took another bite of his sweet bun. “I should think you share plenty, then.”

“Well-- circumstances were very different,” said Theophania, “and Dagda and Almyra are quite different.”

“But,” said Claude, “at least we might’ve noticed some of the same things.”

“At the very least, you did,” agreed Lorenz.

“Well, what a lovely lunch,” said Theophania. “I think it’s time we get to our errands. And, Claude, you ought to as well.” She smiled and offered Lorenz a hand up, and then looked to Claude. “It was wonderful to meet you, Duke Riegan. Take care.” She offered out a hand to shake and Claude awkwardly took it.

“It was great meeting you too, Lady Danan. Hopefully I’ll see you again.”

“Hopefully,” she agreed.

“Wait,” said Lorenz. “Claude, may I speak with you alone for a moment?” He paused, and the two walked down towards the water, the rush of the sea drowning any sound too far off, hiding any words they spoke. The sand was brown underfoot, and porous. It was too cool to enjoy the beach properly, but Lorenz didn’t care for swimming as much as he cared for the wind in his hair and the seabirds in the sky, anyways.

“So…” said Claude, hesitant. “What exactly?”

“I-- I would like to thank you for being so personable with my mother. I know you aren’t a sociable person.”

“But that isn’t it.” Claude folded his arms, looking out at the ocean.

“No,” said Lorenz. “Actually, I wanted to let you know that after she returns to Dagda, I shall be bringing my findings on the matter of the incidents six years ago before the Round Table as a proceedings to strip my father of the Gloucester estate and his position. I thought it would be courteous to give you an advance warning on the matter.”

“Well, it is awful courteous,” said Claude, “but why me?”

“Godfrey von Riegan was your relative.” Lorenz reached up and pushed a stray white strand of hair out of his face. “And I supposed you might care about the matter.”

“I mean… I do.” Claude glanced at him. “But do you need something from me or something?”

“No,” said Lorenz. “No, I’m assembling the full case of material and findings in my spare evenings.”

“Well,” said Claude, “if you want to work at the Riegan manor--”

“I would never impose,” said Lorenz. “I simply wanted to let you know. If ever I need you I shall let you know.”

“Well...Thanks?” Claude smiled a little awkwardly. “I should be heading back.”

“Of course.” Lorenz turned back from the ocean, towards his mother. “I must admit this was quite nice.”

“It was,” agreed Claude. “See ya around.”

“The same to you!” said Lorenz, turning back to his mother as they walked away.

“He seems like a wonderful person,” she said, looking over her shoulder as Claude walked away.

“He is,” agreed Lorenz. “Or at least, I do think he is.”


End file.
